but these were not blocks, I did not see the joints on it. A huge monolithic block, hewn into a perfectly even slightly rough surface of dark brown color. In some places it had enlightenment, large blurred spots on all the area of ​​the wall. There was no entrance on this side of the wall. I went along it, in the desire to go around and see that on the other hand, but there was nothing interesting there. Still the same flat dark brown monolithic stone wall. The hum in the ears stopped and began again, sometimes it became quieter and even changed its tonality. I calmed down a bit when I saw no danger. At least during the first inspection I did not notice something that would threaten my life. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat on the rock and leaned against the wall. But something was wrong here. Something was missing in this space to call it a full-fledged part of the world. Any world, no matter what. Whether it was that surrounded me, or in my feelings. Yes, what was around did not fit into our earthly world at all, nor in any other fantastic, described in countless novels and filmed for kilometers of film. I closed my eyes and threw my head back, she touched the rough wall, rubbed her head a little about her, and then just relaxed. I stayed in that position and did not notice how I was pulled out of this space and found myself again in my bed, opening my eyes and receiving a portion of bright light. At the same time, awakening was no different from awakening on other days. The eyes are as if glued together with adhesive tape, squinting against bright light, the body is relaxed and absolutely do not want to obey the commands of the brain, which itself, in general, did not mind sleeping for a couple of hours.

The building of my dream was the only object in this space, which means that it should have the whole meaning. But what did it do there? How was to get inside? Although, maybe it's good that I did not find the entrance. Did I want to go into it? It scared me, it was alarming. But for some reason I get into this dream? Or is it just a ridiculous dream that dreamed a fourth time. I think it is quite possible, due to some kind of emotional shock. You never know, because the mind is a rather subtle and complex thing. That is, this dream may well end and will never disturb me again

But I did not let go of the feeling that I wanted to close my eyes to some terrible problem, the calm that now suddenly gripped me, seemed to me artificial, inspired by me. So I calmed down, then suddenly I myself found a reason for further concern. Okay. While I will be engaged in affairs, and there it will be visible. It can not last forever. Go to the doctor, this is the last measure. I think I will always have time to go to him, but for now everything is fine with my condition, which means there really is nothing to worry about.

Today, the first thing I wanted to go to my friend at the institute, Arseny. Arseny's father was originally from the Czech Republic, so he bore the not sonorous last name Dvorak. Although, Arseny Dvorzhak sounded, as it seemed to me, quite normal, in any case, the Western European or American surname would look more stupid, standing next to the name Arseny, especially a person who studied at a Russian institute.

Despite its Czech origin, Arseny was a greater Muscovite than me. He lived near Taganskaya Square, in the apartment of his grandmother, who passed to him. He worked as a designer in a small advertising agency. But his main business, he considered not design art. He had a hobby to which he was very devoted. But I did not call it a hobby, otherwise I risked very much offending my old friend. He painted pictures in the genre of surrealism.I, imbued with the institute years, with a love for this type of painting, indisputably admired the skill of Arseny. Arseny with his pictures did not simply convey some images, events, things, his pictures were emotions. He, using paints and pencil, painted loneliness, oppression, affection, betrayal. It was awesome. Fanatical love for details, drawing the smallest details of the object presented to the viewer, captured the eyes, ran around the painted sheet of paper, discovering new and new strokes, nuances, devoured the terrible grimaces of fear, pain, despair on the faces of hypertrophied, twisted, twisted, twisted bony people. Each picture was a window into a separate world, as if what you see in the picture, the domination of one feeling, deliberately underlined, happens behind the wall of your house so that the viewer can feel how it is without mixing in any other sensations. And it was so easy to believe in this world, you just had to stand and watch how you felt at the foot of huge statues, or the gigantic throne of skulls and bones skillfully folded and woven together, wrapped in withered skin, on which you sat not death, not he was a tyrant strayed from omnipotence, a fence of rusty iron rods, overgrown with stretched human bones, like thick ivy. Arseny loved to portray death in his paintings. No, he was not obsessed with her and certainly had no suicidal tendencies. He explained this by saying that death, the only thing that unites absolutely all people on the planet is what will happen to each of us. This is a symbolic end of our life journey. He worries absolutely everyone, absolutely everyone, at least once, but thought about it. At the same time, no one knew death, no one knew if the light was visible at the end of a tunnel there, or if the whole life passed by before my eyes. After all, from the other world hardly anyone managed to return. And there was a certain paradox in it, death was the most common occurrence, it touched absolutely everyone, but at the same time remained the most mysterious.

In the area where he lived, there were often problems with parking, so I decided to take the subway. Moreover, it was even faster. In the half-empty subway was not fuss. Everyone sat on the seats and did not nod their heads, as it happens early in the morning on weekdays. I sat and pondered my dream. He did not give me rest. I, as usual, tried to split it into atoms in order to understand what I could miss. Although, I had no doubt that this was just a wacky, meaningless dream, just by some coincidence of circumstances I had a dream several times. Maybe the first two times he dreamed of me by chance, and then my obsession with this event led him to repeat again. And so on, like a snowball. The cars slowly dragged along the black subway tunnel, lazily swaying around. The voice announced by heart known metro stations, in a half-empty car, it seemed loud and somehow annoying. I went to the “Peasant Outpost” and slowly went to the house of Dvorak. If this house in which Arseny lived is given a bit of decay, then it will be right as if it had come down from his canvases. Although, for this, you still have to twist it with a couple of hundred bones, smear the skull on the walls and then, it may very well be.

Arseny was waiting for me, so I read genuine joy on his face when I entered his apartment. No, this was not an apartment, which can be seen from avid artists in films or books. He didn’t have scattered watmans, paints, brushes, there were no easels standing in the middle of the room. The most common apartment tidy, clean. He kept his art supplies only in one room, and everything was neatly laid out, there were no traces of spilled paint and solvent on the floor.

- Is that you painting in oil? - I asked Arseny, when I saw on his easel another started picture.

- Oh, this? - He looked at the picture, as if he had first seen it. - Yes, oil.Apparently - he said as if offended for my incompetence.

- Well yes. You said that you wanted to draw some kind of chalk there - I continued, peering at the regular outlines of the horror masks that Arseny managed to sketch.

- Are you talking about pastels? Yes, I did. But this ... Read more →