Maxim all the same has fallen asleep, and to it has come in dream a black winged figure with a sickle in very familiar place where
houses paint with blood, and kindly serenely sleeps. The weariness in it struggled with a pain in wounds and bruises, with chilling
walls and a floor, with bezzvezdnym the sky and a frosty draught, with the philosophising madman, and that was nice fight.
Muscles of a back, buttocks and feet writhed in an awful cold and an uncomfortable moisture, but the nape pleasantly cooled
down, delaying a monstrous pain in a cement wall and, apparently, heating up it. The breast, a stomach and hands burnt with
feverish fire, counterbalancing a fever and spasms, and a brain all fell to a black precipice more deeply and more deeply, closing
on itself a pain and rest, a cold and heat, weakness and power, a dream and a reality. Flowing one in another, they addressed in
the contrasts, interchanged the position, merged and were again split.
The brain found new power channels, sent the necessary, exact, verified signals to the braided muscles, monstrous
hematomas, lacerations, and precisely measured doses of an electricity restored himizm and heat exchange: recovered cages
which recollected such elementary way of immortality, as division; bloody clots were squeezed out from a time, were dissolved,
joined the revived blood. Broken off ganglii were extended lengthways ekvipotentsialnyh surfaces, incorporating in spending
multidimensional networks, expelling madness condensates so, it was how much possible in the mad world.