What destroys a man more quickly than to work, think and feel without inner necessity, without any deep personal desire, without pleasure - as a mere automaton of duty?

It isn't possible to kill part of your “self” unless you kill yourself first. If you ruin your conscious personality, the so-called ego-personality, you deprive the self of its real goal, namely to become real itself. The goal of life is the realization of the self. If you kill yourself you abolish that will of the self to become real, but it may arrest your personal development inasmuch it is not explained. You ought to realise that suicide is murder, since after suicide there remains a corpse exactly as with any ordinary murder. Only it is yourself that has been killed.

Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.

Women should have equal pay for equal work and they should be considered equally eligible to the offices of principal and superintendent, professor and president. So you must insist that qualifications, not sex, shall govern appointments and salaries.

All men seek one goal: success or happiness. The only way to achieve true success is to express yourself completely in service to society. First, have a definite, clear, practical ideal—a goal, an objective. Second, have the necessary means to achieve your ends—wisdom, money, material, and methods. Third, adjust all your means to that end.

It has been well said that 'he who has never learned to obey cannot be a good commander.' The two are not the same, but the good citizen ought to be capable of both; he should know how to govern like a freeman, and how to obey like a freeman - these are the virtues of a citizen.

I’m dazzled by your facility. In ten days you’ll have written six stories! I don’t understand it… I’m like one of those old aqueducts: there’s so much rubbish cogging up the banks of my thought that it flows slowly, and only spills from the end of my pen drop by drop.

The aim of education is to make the pupil like and dislike what he ought....The little human animal will not at first have the right responses. It must be trained to feel pleasure, liking, disgust, and hatred at those things which really are pleasant, likable, disgusting, and hateful.

Constancy will always be the genius of love, the indication of that strength which constitutes the poet. A man should possess all women in his wife, like those squalid poetasters of the seventeenth century who made fair Irises and dazzling Chloes of their lowly Manons.

What moralist can deny that well-bred and vicious people are much more agreeable than their virtuous counterparts? Having crimes to atone for, they provisionally solicit indulgence by showing leniency toward the defects of their judges. Thus they pass for excellent folk.

Dandyism is the last flicker of heroism in decadent ages.... Dandyism is a setting sun; like the declining star, it is magnificent, without heat and full of melancholy. But alas! the rising tide of democracy, which spreads everywhere and reduces everything to the same level, is daily carrying away these last champions of human pride, and submerging, in the waters of oblivion, the last traces of these remarkable myrmidons.

It is unfortunately very true that, without leisure and money, love can be no more than an orgy of the common man. Instead of being a sudden impulse full of ardor and reverie, it becomes a distastefully utilitarian affair.

Many of us marvel at the icy insensitivity with which women snuff out their armours. But if they did not blot out the past in this manner, life for them would lose all dignity and they could never resist the fatal familiarities to which they once submitted.

We must have books for recreation and entertainment, as well as books for instruction and for business; the former are agreeable, the latter useful, and the human mind requires both. The cannon law and the codes of Justinian shall have due honor, and reign at the universities; but Homer and Virgil need not therefore be banished. We will cultivate the olive and the vine, but without eradicating the myrtle and the rose.

In the silence of their studios, busied for days at a time with works which leave the mind relatively free, painters become like women; their thoughts can revolve around the minor facts of life and penetrate their hidden meaning.

Everybody has to think for himself. A right way for a big man may not be a right way for a small man. A right way for someone who is slow may not be a right way for someone who is quick. Each person must understand his weaknesses and his strengths.

The man who backbites an absent friend, nay, who does not stand up for him when another blames him, the man who angles for bursts of laughter and for the repute of a wit, who can invent what he never saw, who cannot keep a secret -- that man is black at heart: mark and avoid him.

That God became man indicates only this: that man should not seek his salvation in eternity, but rather establish his heaven on earth.

Personality is the supreme realization of the innate idiosyncracy of a living being. It is an act of high courage flung in the face of life, the absolute affirmation of all that constitutes the individual, the most successful adaptation to the universal conditions of existence coupled with the greatest possible freedom for self-determination.

So they speak soothingly about progress and the greatest possible happiness, forgetting that happiness is itself poisoned if the measure of suffering has not been fulfilled.

Man is the microcosm of the macrocosm ; the God on earth is built on the pattern of the God in nature. But the universal consciousness of the real Ego transcends a million fold the self-consciousness of the personal for false ego.

❝.. There are people who touch us more in a fraction of a second, in a few hours, with a smile, than others will ever touch us in a lifetime. There are those you recognize at a glance, and those you simply get to know. There are those we love instinctively, of whom we love everything—from the dark to the light, from their scent to their skin, from their words to their silence—and then there are those we settle for ..❞

❝.. From childhood, many of us are taught to protect our sensitive places. We build walls around our hearts to shield ourselves from injury. We are afraid that if we show our fragility, someone will exploit it or use it against us. Conscious vulnerability is not weakness. It is not headlong exposure to everyone. It is a conscious and brave decision to be authentic and honest in a safe space. And it is in this very space that trust, empathy, and that wonderful feeling that we are truly seen and accepted as we are, are born ..❞

❝.. Sometimes you hold onto the past for so long that you forget what it's like to live without pain. You stay in places where you no longer belong. You keep returning to people who have moved on. And you convince yourself that you just need to hold on a little longer. But then comes a moment when something quietly breaks. Not loudly. Not dramatically. You just suddenly stop fighting what you feel. And for the first time, you don't make a decision for others. You make it for yourself ..❞

Cautious, careful people, always casting about to preserve their reputation and social standing, never can bring about a reform. Those who are really in earnest must be willing to be anything or nothing in the world's estimation.

Pistachio Tiramisu Icebox Bars with White ChocolateLattice

Ingredients

For the Pistachio Base & Layers:

2 packs (approx. 14 oz) ladyfinger cookies (savoiardi)

1 cup strong brewed coffee or espresso, cooled

2 tbsp pistachio paste or butter

1/4 cup pistachio liqueur (optional)

For the Pistachio Mascarpone Cream:

16 oz mascarpone cheese, chilled

1 cup heavy whipping cream, cold

1/2 cup powdered sugar

1/3 cup high-quality pistachio paste

1 tsp vanilla bean paste

For the White Chocolate Lattice & Crunch:

4 oz white chocolate, chopped

1/2 cup roasted pistachios, finely crushed

1/2 tsp matcha powder (optional, for vibrant green color)

Directions

Whisk the cooled coffee, 2 tablespoons of pistachio

paste, and liqueur in a shallow bowl until the paste is

mostly dissolved.

Beat the heavy cream and powdered sugar in a chilled

bowl until stiff peaks form.

Mix the mascarpone, 1/3 cup pistachio paste, and vanilla

bean paste in a separate large bowl until smooth.

Fold the whipped cream gently into the mascarpone

mixture until you have a uniform, pale green cloud-like

consistency.

Line an 8x8 inch square baking pan with parchment

paper, leaving an overhang on the sides for easy

removal.

Dip each ladyfinger briefly into the coffee mixture (don't

soak them through) and create a single layer at the

bottom of the pan.

Spread half of the pistachio mascarpone cream over the

ladyfingers. Repeat with a second layer of dipped

ladyfingers and the remaining cream. Smooth the top

with an offset spatula.

Melt the white chocolate in the microwave in 20-second

bursts. Transfer to a piping bag or a small plastic bag

with the corner snipped off.

Pipe a lattice pattern (criss-cross lines) across the top of

the cream. Immediately sprinkle the crushed pistachios

over the wet chocolate so they stick.

Freeze for at least 6 hours, or ideally overnight. Lift the

bars out using the parchment overhang and slice into

rectangles while frozen. Let them soften for 10 minutes

at room temperature before serving.

Golden Mango Pistachio Cheesecake Domes with GlassGlaze

Ingredients

For the Pistachio Crust:

3/4 cup roasted pistachios, finely ground

1/2 cup graham cracker crumbs

3 tbsp unsalted butter, melted

1 tbsp granulated sugar

For the Mango Cheesecake:

12 oz cream cheese, softened

1/2 cup mango puree, strained

1/3 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup heavy cream

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 1/2 tsp powdered gelatin

2 tbsp cold water

For the Glass Glaze:

1 cup white chocolate chips

1/2 cup sweetened condensed milk

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup water

1 tbsp powdered gelatin

3 tbsp cold water (to bloom)

1/2 tsp golden yellow food coloring gel

For Garnish:

1 tsp crushed pistachios

Small slivers of fresh mango

Directions

Combine ground pistachios, graham crumbs, sugar, and

melted butter. Press firmly into 3-inch circles on a

parchment-lined tray and chill until firm.

Bloom 1 1/2 tsp gelatin in 2 tbsp cold water for 5

minutes, then melt briefly in the microwave.

Beat cream cheese and sugar until smooth. Add mango

puree, vanilla, and the melted gelatin.

Whip heavy cream to stiff peaks and gently fold into the

mango mixture.

Pipe the mixture into silicone dome molds, leaving a

small space at the top. Press the chilled pistachio crust

circles onto the base of each dome.

Freeze the domes for at least 6 hours until completely

solid.

For the glaze, bloom 1 tbsp gelatin in 3 tbsp cold water.

Simmer water, sugar, and condensed milk in a saucepan

over medium heat. Remove from heat and stir in the

bloomed gelatin.

Pour the hot liquid over white chocolate chips and let sit

for 2 minutes. Add yellow food coloring and whisk until

perfectly smooth and glossy.

Strain the glaze through a fine-mesh sieve and let cool to

90°F.

Unmold the frozen domes onto a wire rack. Pour the

glass glaze over each dome in a circular motion until

fully coated.

Garnish with crushed pistachios at the base and a

mango sliver on top. Thaw in the refrigerator for 2 hours

before serving.

Shrimp & Salmon Plate 🍤🐟This is the ultimate seafood comfort dinner packed withflGarlicavor!

 

📝 Ingredients :

2 salmon fillets

10–12 shrimp, peeled and deveined

1 bunch broccolini

2 cups mashed potatoes

3 garlic cloves, minced

2 tbsp butter

Olive oil

Salt & black pepper

Paprika

Italian seasoning

Fresh parsley, chopped

Lemon juice

🍽️ How to Make It :

1️⃣ Season the Seafood:

Coat salmon and shrimp with olive oil, paprika, garlic,

salt, and pepper for the best homemade seafood dinner

and an easy restaurant-style recipe.

2️⃣ Cook the Salmon:

Sear the salmon until crispy outside and flaky inside for

the ultimate pan-seared salmon and a quick high-protein

dinner everyone loves.

3️⃣ Sauté the Garlic Shrimp:

Melt butter with garlic and cook shrimp until juicy and

lightly caramelized for the best garlic butter shrimp and a

healthy comfort food meal.

4️⃣ Prepare the Sides:

Steam or sauté broccolini until tender-crisp and make

creamy mashed potatoes for the ultimate cozy dinner

plate and a balanced wholesome meal.

5️⃣ Assemble & Serve:

Plate the salmon over mashed potatoes, top with garlic

shrimp, and serve with broccolini for the perfect seafood

dinner idea and a restaurant-quality comfort plate vibe.

Jagodowy tort

 

Tort jagodowy

 

Frozen Coconut Matcha Crystal Domes with VanillaCream Core

Ingredients

For the Matcha Coconut Mousse:

1 can (13.5 oz) full-fat coconut milk, chilled overnight

1 tbsp ceremonial grade matcha powder

1/3 cup powdered sugar

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tbsp gelatin powder bloomed in 2 tbsp water

For the Vanilla Cream Core:

1/2 cup mascarpone cheese, softened

2 tbsp heavy cream

1 tbsp powdered sugar

1 tsp vanilla bean paste

1/2 tsp gelatin powder bloomed in 1 tbsp water

For the Crystal Mirror Glaze:

1 cup white chocolate chips

1/2 cup sweetened condensed milk

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup water

1 tbsp gelatin powder

1/2 tsp matcha powder (for a light green tint)

For Garnish (optional):

Toasted coconut flakes

Edible silver leaf

Sifted matcha

Directions

Whisk mascarpone, 2 tbsp cream, powdered sugar, and

vanilla bean paste until smooth; stir in melted bloomed

gelatin.

Pour into small semi-sphere molds and freeze for 2 hours

until solid.

Scoop the solid cream from the top of the chilled coconut

milk can (discarding the liquid) and whip with powdered

sugar, vanilla, and 1 tbsp matcha until thick.

Stir the large portion of melted bloomed gelatin into the

matcha coconut mixture.

Fill large dome molds halfway with the matcha mousse,

press a frozen vanilla cream core into the center, and top

with more mousse.

Freeze the domes for at least 6 hours until rock solid.

To make the glaze, simmer sugar, water, and condensed

milk; remove from heat and whisk in gelatin and white

chocolate chips.

Sift in the 1/2 tsp matcha for a translucent crystal green

tint and blend with an immersion blender until smooth;

cool to 91°F.

Unmold the frozen domes onto a wire rack and pour the

glaze over them in a fluid, circular motion.

Let set in the refrigerator for 20 minutes before

garnishing with toasted coconut and silver leaf.

Emerald Lime Pistachio Cheesecake Bombs with CrystalCore

Ingredients

For the Pistachio Cheesecake:

8 oz cream cheese, softened

1/2 cup pistachio paste (unsweetened)

1/2 cup powdered sugar

1 cup heavy cream, chilled

1 tbsp gelatin powder bloomed in 2 tbsp water

1 drop emerald green food coloring gel

For the Crystal Lime Core:

1/2 cup fresh lime juice

1/4 cup water

1/3 cup granulated sugar

1 tsp lime zest

1 tsp gelatin powder bloomed in 1 tbsp water

For the Crystal Mirror Glaze:

1 cup white chocolate chips

1/2 cup sweetened condensed milk

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup water

1 tbsp gelatin powder

For Garnish (optional):

Finely crushed pistachios

Clear edible sugar crystals

Fresh lime zest curls

Directions

Combine lime juice, water, and sugar in a small

saucepan; heat until sugar dissolves. Stir in the small

portion of bloomed gelatin and lime zest.

Pour the lime mixture into small semi-sphere molds and

freeze for 3 hours until completely solid.

Beat softened cream cheese, pistachio paste, and

powdered sugar until smooth and vibrant green.

Whip heavy cream to stiff peaks and gently fold into the

pistachio mixture along with the melted bloomed gelatin

and green gel.

Fill large dome molds halfway with the pistachio

cheesecake, press a frozen lime crystal core into the

center, and top with more cheesecake.

Freeze the "bombs" for at least 8 hours or until rock solid.

To make the glaze, simmer sugar, water, and condensed

milk; remove from heat and whisk in gelatin and white

chocolate.

Blend with an immersion blender until perfectly clear and

smooth; let cool until it reaches 90°F.

Unmold the frozen pistachio domes onto a wire rack and

pour the clear glaze over them for a glass-like finish.

Allow the glaze to set in the refrigerator for 20 minutes,

then garnish the base with crushed pistachios and top

with lime zest.

Mediterranean Egg & Fresh Veggie Plate 🥚🍋A quick healthy breakfast packed with fresh flavor andprotein.

📝 Ingredients :

4 large eggs

1 cup tomatoes, sliced

½ cup pomegranate seeds

1 cucumber, sliced

¼ cup feta cheese, cubed

¼ cup fresh parsley, chopped

6 Kalamata olives

1 lemon, sliced

½ tsp paprika

½ tsp black pepper

½ tsp salt

½ tsp dried oregano

🍽️ ** How to Make It :**

1️⃣ Boil the Eggs:

Boil eggs for 7–8 minutes until perfectly jammy for the

best soft-boiled eggs, easy protein breakfast, and healthy

morning meal.

2️⃣ Prep the Fresh Veggies:

Slice tomatoes and cucumbers, chop parsley, and cube

feta for the best Mediterranean breakfast, fresh healthy

plate, and easy clean eating recipe.

3️⃣ Assemble the Plate:

Arrange eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, parsley, olives, and

feta neatly on the plate for the ultimate healthy

breakfast, easy balanced meal, and protein-packed start.

4️⃣ Season It Up:

Sprinkle paprika, oregano, salt, and pepper over the eggs

and veggies for the best flavor boost, fresh breakfast

upgrade, and easy homemade dish.

5️⃣ Finish & Serve:

Add pomegranate seeds and lemon wedges on the side

for the perfect fresh breakfast plate, healthy

Mediterranean vibe, and quick morning fuel.

Garlic Butter Salmon & Shrimp Plate 🍤🐟This is the ultimate healthy seafood dinner everyonecraves!

📝 Ingredients :

1 salmon fillet

6–8 shrimp, peeled and deveined

1 cup broccoli florets

½ cup sweet corn

1 lemon slice

2 tbsp butter

2 garlic cloves, minced

Salt & black pepper to taste

Paprika

Fresh parsley, chopped

Olive oil

🍽️ How to Make It :

1️⃣ Season the Seafood:

Season the salmon and shrimp with salt, pepper, and

paprika for the best homemade seafood recipe and an

easy healthy dinner idea packed with flavor.

2️⃣ Cook the Salmon:

Heat olive oil in a skillet and sear the salmon until golden

and crispy outside while flaky inside. This creates the

perfect restaurant-style salmon and a quick weeknight

seafood meal.

3️⃣ Sauté the Shrimp:

Melt butter and garlic in the pan, then cook shrimp until

juicy and lightly charred for the best garlic butter shrimp

and an easy protein-packed dinner.

4️⃣ Prepare the Veggies:

Steam broccoli and warm the sweet corn for a fresh

clean eating plate and a healthy comfort food meal prep

look.

5️⃣ Assemble & Serve:

Arrange salmon, shrimp, broccoli, and corn on a plate.

Top with parsley and lemon for the ultimate seafood

dinner bowl and a fresh high-protein meal everybody

loves.

Steak & Eggs Power Bowl 🥩🍳This is the best high-protein comfort meal ever

!

📝 Ingredients :

1 steak striploin or ribeye

2 eggs

1 avocado, sliced

2 cups fresh arugula

¼ cup feta cheese

Olive oil

Salt & black pepper

Garlic powder

Chili flakes

Butter

🍽️ How to Make It :

1️⃣ Season the Steak:

Rub the steak with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic

powder for the ultimate juicy steak dinner and a

restaurant-quality protein meal.

2️⃣ Cook the Steak:

Sear the steak in a hot skillet with butter until beautifully

charred outside and tender inside. This creates the best

steakhouse-style recipe and a quick high-protein dinner.

3️⃣ Fry the Eggs:

Cook sunny-side-up eggs until the whites are set and

yolks stay rich and golden for the perfect breakfast-for-

dinner idea and an easy comfort food meal.

4️⃣ Prepare the Salad:

Toss arugula with feta, olive oil, and black pepper for a

fresh healthy side salad and a Mediterranean-inspired

bowl recipe.

5️⃣ Assemble & Serve:

Slice the steak and plate it beside eggs, avocado, and

salad for the ultimate balanced protein bowl and a clean

eating steak meal prep masterpiece.

Creamy Garlic Chicken Plate 🍗🥔This is the ultimate cozy comfort dinner everyone loves!

📝 Ingredients :

2 chicken thighs, skin-on

2 cups mashed potatoes

1 bunch baby carrots

2 tbsp butter

3 garlic cloves, minced

1 cup heavy cream

½ cup chicken broth

Salt & black pepper

Paprika

Italian seasoning

Fresh parsley, chopped

Olive oil

🍽️ How to Make It :

1️⃣ Season the Chicken:

Rub chicken thighs with olive oil, salt, pepper, paprika,

and Italian seasoning for the best homemade chicken

dinner and an easy comfort food recipe.

2️⃣ Sear Until Crispy:

Cook the chicken skin-side down until golden and crispy

for the perfect juicy chicken thighs and a restaurant-style

family meal.

3️⃣ Make the Creamy Garlic Sauce:

Melt butter and sauté garlic before adding cream and

chicken broth. Simmer until rich and velvety for the best

creamy garlic sauce and a quick skillet dinner idea.

4️⃣ Prepare the Sides:

Roast or sauté carrots until tender and buttery while

keeping mashed potatoes fluffy for the ultimate comfort

food plate and a cozy homemade dinner vibe.

5️⃣ Assemble & Serve:

Plate the chicken over creamy garlic sauce beside

mashed potatoes and carrots. Garnish with parsley for

the perfect hearty dinner recipe and a classic homestyle

meal everybody craves.

Dear Dad: Punishment and Crime

Do you know how beautiful your granddaughters look when they're running around the park? Susanne is wearing a purple flowered dress and swinging with her best friend on a horse that works like a crane. It was my favorite pose on the playground. When Sara lands, my beautiful daughter soars like a laughing angel. She has a chubby face and is missing a first number, which only adds to her character. Meanwhile, Ania plays next to me in the sandbox with the other children. Ania loves making sand cakes and gets terribly upset when one doesn't turn out right. After that, she's completely unconcerned with the other children destroying them. The important thing is that they turn out well. I have to constantly watch her because every now and then, her hands, completely dirty, unconsciously go to her mouth.

You know why I'm writing, right? Fifteen years old. Death has already matured. As a fully educated girl, she already has breasts and a mind of her own. I suppose this is the perfect time for her to break through the wall and emerge from me. Any day now, she'll turn into an old maid, too tired to leave. So I'm writing. You'll get this letter, sit in a chair, put on those ugly, oversized glasses with slightly red glass frames. Maybe you'll be eating soup or drinking milk. And you'll read it until you believe it.

Last winter, over dinner, Susanne told me about a boy who every day takes bottles out of paper bags and throws them into the glass container. I'm sure it would be much less humiliating for him to throw them into a regular trash can, without publicly revealing the contents. Except there's no perfectly regular container here where he could toss them completely anonymously. So he's undergoing this embarrassing segregation of his parents' privacy. Susanne doesn't know what bottles for individual spirits look like. She only knows the bottles for the wines we drink.

"Those were a bit like these"—she points to a rack of red Burgundies and a white Rhinelander—"only transparent, like Coke."

And suddenly it all came back. I'd seen alcoholics so many times during that time. Dirty, unwashed, sleeping in underground passages and corners of metro stations. And when I emerged, I'd see others. Completely clean addicts in well-tailored suits, or with bags of crafting tools slung over their shoulders. I'd seen drunk society women, described as "DRINKERS." The front pages of the tabloids were filled with scary headlines about celebrities with problems. But I'd almost forgotten about the vodka bottles wrapped in newspapers that I'd toss into the trash when Mommy was talking to you, even though you knew everything anyway, right? It was pure kindness on your part to pretend you didn't see. I'm just not sure you know that Mommy explained to me that it was a game. A bit like hide-and-seek. I was to discreetly remove the bottles and toss them into the container as quietly as possible. I was convinced it was the best game in the world, and what's more, I was a master of stealth. I was like a child who, playing Dodgeball, finds himself alone on his own turf because he's faster than the eyes and movements of the other players.

For the first time in this foreign country, I saw myself. I asked Susanne to show me the boy. He was just as I'd imagined him. In his corduroy jacket and black cap, he didn't stand out from the rest. He was completely ordinary; he didn't even have sad eyes, and I thought that my eyes weren't any sadder than my friends'. Perhaps he, too, hadn't yet grasped, even at the age of eight or nine, that these bottles were part of a depressing family display. The boy's name is Thomas, and Susanne knows it from his younger sister, with whom she goes to kindergarten. Initially, I planned to learn a few interesting facts about these people. However, I gave up when I realized that my knowledge was insufficient to sympathize with them, but sufficient to associate them with our family.

It was Saturday morning when Matthias and I first arrived home. You were pruning the rose that climbed up the back of the house. Thanks to that, it bloomed for the second time at the end of the summer. I called to you, and you shielded your face from the sun with your hand to look at us. At dinner, you asked Matthias in a tone that suggested you were asking about the weather in Germany, or whether his ancestors were Nazis. A dead silence fell in the room. "Don't you think I expect an answer, boy? As far as I'm concerned, you could even be Hitler's grandson. As long as you're not a communist!" A terrified Matthias still can't understand the point of the question. Over time, the desire to explain your behavior completely vanished. Last night, however, I did something that shocked him. I quoted to him the exact words you used to describe him after that first visit. They haven't lost any of their relevance, and today they are no longer just hypotheses, because I can support them with arguments from our everyday lives. That evening in the bedroom, the conversation degenerated into what I would describe as a "quiet argument." At the climax of the argument, I explained to him why he was a loser, an idiot, a henpecked man, and a coward. I backed it up with some really solid facts, from his avoidance of military service to his pathetic betrayal

. He didn't even want to deny it. I asked him if he wanted to leave. I believe that after seven years, I owed him the right to choose. He didn't want to. The argument was the girls.

"If you want, you can take them and leave. Maybe I'll leave. I could go back to Poland and work in real estate. I've always wanted to do that. I'd see them often. And then there are the holidays, the vacations. It's not the end of the world, just one limit."

He lowered his gaze, as if searching for words between the parquet floorboards.

"Of course, it's humiliating for me, but I have no intention of forcing you to stay. After all, we were never a good match."

Soul

.

A child is born. Like every other day. But for two people, this child is extraordinary. For two people, it's a symbol of love. First steps, first smile, first word: "Mommy." So much joy. Even more. The happiest days of life. The child so sweetly treads bare feet across the plush carpet. The father holds the infant's fragile hand in his large, strong hand. Tears well up in his eyes. The mother rocks the child in her arms. The little one smiles in his sleep. The notes of a song dance around. From the outside, an ordinary house. A gray building. No one would have guessed that opening the door to this house could be positively dangerous. One could be struck by the fire of love. Even when the walls were cold, the warmth was palpable... That's how it was. Today, in a black armchair in the center of the room, the father sits. Alone. He stares at the empty, small bed. The ponies above the bed stop running. A tear runs down the father's cheek. A single scene flashes before my eyes: his soul, his strength, his life, his everything, combined into two people – wife and friend, child and heart… they cross the street. His wife passes by, holding a baby in her arms, smiling, happy, waving goodbye to her father. She blows him a kiss, unaware that it's the last, a farewell kiss. Suddenly, the father's radiant face changes expression. A scream rings out, seemingly wandering through space. The wife, the mother, seems to float through the air. She falls. She bounces off the concrete surface. She's dead. The child, far away from her, also lies motionless. The mother's hand rests on his heart. The father-husband runs, screams, cries. He is torn apart by pain. He beats his chest. He hugs his wife. He gently grasps the child, drenched in blood. He lies on the cold concrete. Tears flow from his eyes like a waterfall. He can't see. He feels as if a knife pierces his heart. They arrive. The police. The ambulance. The word: death echoes in his head. That image lingers in his memory.

A year has passed, and he still sits in the black armchair. His eyes are still a waterfall. Inside the house, the cold walls deepen his inner frost. His wife holds him by the arm, his one-year-old child standing beside him. He sits on his father's lap, but he doesn't see. A tear of love falls on him. But he doesn't feel. He rises from the armchair. Carefully. As if his heart were telling him to. He goes to the kitchen. He pulls out a knife and plunges it deep into his heart. He feels no pain. There is no pain greater than the one that pierced his insides every day. He collapses. Suddenly, he sees his soul, his wife, and his child. He is already outside his body. He is already beyond all the evil of the world. In the embrace of his child, with his wife's touch, he left the house. They left it together. A house where the walls were always cold, but the air was filled with an otherworldly, indefinable scent.

Memoirs

I've never written memoirs. Not because I lack the proper style or the ability to give them the proper form. I didn't write because I was busy with life, in the full sense of the word. Now I have a moment, nay, more than a moment, and definitely more time than I'd like, to briefly recount those last moments, those last days. Quite important, because they ultimately changed my life completely. Perhaps not the days themselves, but rather what triggered this unfortunate chain of events that led me to where I am now.

My old teacher often told me: "It's always about two things: either money or a woman." And he cited the most banal example of a man's destruction, the cause of which was a woman. I'm referring, of course, to Troy. For centuries, people have killed each other for fair-haired beauties... or they were the reason for their mutual slaughter.

The most amusing paradox is that, for example, the Greek goddess of war is a woman, and so is the goddess of victory. But I digress. My story has little in common with the ancient Troy or the Greek deities.

My name was Samuel Rillke. I admit, not without pride, that it inspired admiration, respect, and to some extent (let's be honest, even a great deal) fear. I was one of the mob bosses. I don't deny it; denying the truth would be pointless now. They called me the White Dragon, one of the four who ruled the city. I am a native American, flesh and blood, with all our lousy patriotism and love of anthems, symbols, and flags ingrained deep, deep in our genes. The important fact of this story is that I am an orphan (or I think it is). Until I was nineteen, I knew neither my father nor my mother. Then I sought them out and killed them. With my own hands. I hated them. I still hate them. For what they did to me. That they abandoned me, condemned me, abandoned me. They didn't want my life, so I took theirs. From then on, I relentlessly pursued power. And when I gained it... power, tons of money, prestige, and respect... suddenly she appeared.

Her name was Teo. A black-haired beauty with icy eyes and extraordinary skills in dealing death. I never learned the truth about her. Where she came from, who taught her, and what her past was. She burst into my life like a storm, literally, finding me over a glass of my favorite alcohol and surrounded by beautiful women, who, however, were inferior in this regard, immediately and unconditionally declaring their surrender. Specifically, it was in a club, and she was thrown like a feather onto my table by some thug. Unfortunately, the table shattered upon impact. And she was furious. Those few seconds were enough for me to marvel at her outburst of anger. She slit the man's throat. With a piece of glass left over from the shattered glass. She did it so skillfully that the man was probably dead before the glass even broke his skin.

Yes, she was incredible. Completely unlike any woman I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was extraordinary because she had no idea who I was and didn't care, and in the future, she didn't even show the slightest interest in my shady dealings, actions, or interests. She was extraordinary because she wouldn't let herself be pushed around; she demanded respect, ruthlessly. And the guy at the club learned that. She was extraordinary because she was vindictive in the cruelest sense of the word. And she was mad. Her madness focused on the blade of the knife, which she wielded with extraordinary skill, as if it were an inseparable part of her body, or simply as if she'd been born with it. She had no tolerance for firearms. She didn't use them herself, and I suspect she couldn't, and in others, she viewed it as a sign of weakness.

She despised no one. Yet her indifference and cold gaze were something far worse than contempt.

That was how our acquaintance began, or rather, her work for me. For reasons I couldn't fathom, I trusted her more than anyone else. Perhaps precisely because she was only interested in protecting my life? Which, of course, I paid her for.

She was incredibly thorough (besides being extraordinary in general) and precise, asking no questions, doing what she was supposed to do and what I asked of her. It never occurred to me to order or demand anything of her. She killed, abused, and coerced without a second thought, and did it far more effectively than any of my men had ever done before.

She was simply a treasure. A high price, but a treasure nonetheless. She seemed downright inhuman. Exceptionally quiet, taciturn, and unapproachable. But not for me. I always got what I wanted. But I didn't have to win her over. She simply came to my bedroom one night, soaking wet because it was raining, and we made love. I think it was the only display of weakness she allowed herself. I didn't ask her why she was walking the streets in such weather. I didn't ask why she'd come to me either. Maybe I should have… But I didn't, and now it's too late…

She turned out to be an equally extraordinary lover… when she felt like it (and fortunately, she often did). Otherwise, I would have melted the iceberg faster than I could touch it. In that sphere, she had complete control over me, and it didn't bother me when she suddenly became cold, approaching the window, her gaze pensive, and probing the world beyond. She could stand there for long periods. I should have approached her then, embraced her, and simply held her in my arms. But I was absolutely convinced she didn't need something as trivial as the warmth of another person, the feeling of security in the arms of a lover, or a few kind words. It seemed to me she took what she wanted and didn't need anything more. How wrong I was… She would never have asked for it, and you can't just take that away. It was a stalemate. She craved warmth, but she couldn't express it. I wanted to give her that warmth, but I was convinced she didn't need it. And so the cold grew more and more intense.

She was still with me. She still protected me, often being seriously injured in the process. Each time, I was afraid she would leave. Not so much from my life, but from me, but not from work. I couldn't bear that. Fortunately, it never came to that. She came back. Always. In bandages, with wounds still not fully healed, she stood before me and smiled faintly. She carried a knife on her belt.

And even when the hot shower water flowed down her body, staining her red, when she quickly washed away the traces of the recent fight… even then she was beautiful. When she tied her long hair back with a curse. When she gritted her teeth in silent anger at herself for allowing herself to be so tricked, so surprised. When she paced the room naked, unconsciously toying with a knife. In the middle of the night or early morning. She looked as if something was troubling her, but she never said what. I didn't ask. A fool.

I trusted her completely. I truly was a fool. She wasn't interested in my money, connections, or business dealings. She didn't care about the high-profile figures who protected me. Nor did she care about the army of assassins I'd hired to watch over me day and night. She wanted nothing from me… except warmth. Maybe love. Maybe deep down, she dreamed of romantic love, infatuation, a house with a white picket fence, a knight on a white steed. I don't know. I really don't know.

I'm only sure of one thing. If I'd given her the warmth of my arms then, embraced her as she stood silently by the window, held her as she slept, kissed her as she dressed, adored her with words, actions, gifts... maybe the cold would have vanished from her gaze. Maybe she would have started to smile sincerely...

Oh yes... She killed me. I should have seen it coming. That morning, at sunrise. I remember it was raining. Drops were pattering fiercely against the window, the wind humming a mournful song. It was gloomy. When I woke up, she was sitting in bed. Naked. Playing with a knife. Staring out the window. Lost in thought. Finally, she looked at me. That coldness still smoldered in her eyes as she quickly (and painlessly, almost) slit my throat. So quietly and without emotion.

I regret it. I truly regret not making her smile.

Now I'm my own tombstone. She did the right thing by killing me. One less son of a bitch in this world. I wish she'd killed more like me. She's standing over my grave now. So beautiful. The knife is on her belt. I can still feel her blood on it. She's leaving. This is truly leaving. She'll never return. And I'll stay here and tell my story over and over again. Over and over again... I was a fool. I deserved to die. For every reason anyone ever gave. And that's my penance.

I never wrote a memoir. Not because I don't have the right style...

What U do to me

Another party my friends dragged me to. I don't know how much I wanted to chill out and forget about my ex-girlfriend, who couldn't live without me, and I was simply tired of being in a relationship (especially with her), or how much I was just trying to remember what it's like to party with people I hadn't seen since high school graduation. The club was one of those in Krakow that everyone knows about. And since my friends knew the owners, why not? The best booths, the best drinks, beer straight from the water at a discount, a DJ who knew what to play; all he had to do was see the right face smiling his way... life, not death! The whole crew was sitting on a large leather couch in the VIP section. I don't remember why we stood in our jackets for a long time, performing some kind of greeting ritual. Then I recognized her. Walking between us toward her friend, she inevitably brushed against us. Me. I smelled her perfume, something incredibly expensive, at least that's the impression I got. She stood. Between us. Between guys she didn't know at all. She turned her head and looked into my eyes.

"Real rabbits, right?" For the first few seconds, I couldn't understand what she meant. Only then did I remember the lining of my jacket.

"Yes..." I was about to introduce myself, ask my friends who she was, since she was sitting with them, but she casually brushed past Piotrek and sat down, sipping a beer.

I liked her. She wasn't tall, quite the opposite. A brunette, with big, blue eyes. She had a nice ass, at least in those pants. And her breasts... the perfect size. Or so I thought, although maybe it was the ample cleavage at the time...

It turned out she was a very good friend of one of my friends. The subject of this girl came up by accident; I really had no control over it! Rafał described her in glowing terms. No flaws. Honest, dedicated, brilliant, optimistic yet realistic, always cheerful, fond of talking, but you could trust her. Funny, she mostly jokes about herself, mainly about her small stature and clumsiness. But when necessary, she's completely serious, doesn't take offense, knows when to stop and when to start. She's always there for her friends when they need her, no matter the time, day, or event... a party is empty without her; she can dance for hours, and she even does it well... I imagined how she must move, and to find out, all I had to do was walk onto the dance floor... Only after a while did it start to seem like I'd heard something similar about someone.

"...yes, she goes to the same high school we went to..." Rafał added, sipping his beer.

"Wait a minute...isn't that Bee?" I asked uncertainly. Rafał laughed.

"I've been talking about her since the beginning..." He actually introduced her as Agnieszka. She was better known as Bee. A so-called legend. Legendary people are those who everyone has heard of, and when they meet in person, they feel like they've known each other for ages.

And I finally met Bee. The one I always laughed at, because how could a sixteen-year-old give advice to eighteen-year-old guys? How could she be friends with them normally, not have crushes on them, and know them so well? But those were the old days. We were all older now. And I still wanted to laugh, but at her friends. Because personally, I couldn't be friends with such a hot chick... ;]

"Nice jacket," she said at one of the next parties. I kept going to them for her. At least ever since. "Actually, that fur coat, it's so cute..." she winked, stroking the lining of the aforementioned jacket she held on her lap.

"Simple..." I replied in my own way, reaching for the mug.

"This might sound silly, but I'd love to take off my clothes and feel that rabbit fur on my naked body..." she said with a twinkle in her eye. Normally, I'd take it as a flirtation, but she was simply expressing her thoughts. Of course, that didn't change the fact that I used all my willpower not to choke on my beer. Her naked body in only my jacket...

Another party. She couldn't come. I'd lost the will to party. Then a series of others, either me with unrepresentative friends, or with my ex... it's hard to maintain a relationship under such circumstances.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, sitting down next to Bee and Piotrek. I'd had enough to not have to worry about the others.

"About favorite positions," she replied briefly, smiling disarmingly.

"So what did you come up with?" Silence. "Piotr, I know that, but do you prefer top or bottom?" – I thought she'd turn it all into a joke.

– The guy should be the dominant one, after all, you have to be in charge somewhere, right? – they both laughed. – But seriously, what about "top" or "bottom"… from behind is best…

– Really? – Piotrek and I both felt a sudden rush of heat. At least I think so…

– Is that bad…? – she asked uncertainly, putting on a fake, innocent face.

– No, it's just… I finish this way the fastest. Which doesn't change the fact that I also like this one the most. – Bee smiled after my comment.

– And your biggest erotic fantasy? Fulfilled or unfulfilled… – I knew she didn't like beer with juice. But always through a straw. And she doesn't smoke. Although she couldn't imagine a guy not smoking after sex. She told me too.

– All of mine… well, almost all of them I fulfilled. And I don't want to talk about it because it's between me and my ex… – I said with the utmost sincerity. Piotrek capitulated. – And yours?

- On the train... - she looked into my eyes as if it was a challenge.

"On the train...? In the restroom?

" "No, just..." Another sip of beer. Jesus, she turned me on!

"I heard you were in demand.

" "Depends on what..." I winked knowingly. Another outing together. Another one just for her.

"One of the few who supposedly says no to girls who only want sex..." I knew Piotrek had blurted something out because he was sitting next to her again. They were talking again. I felt a strange twinge in my stomach at the thought of something happening between them. He wasn't the guy for her!

"It's even true, to be honest...

" "Sure...

" "Really. Four... five girls, 'Michał, you're fucking turning me on, fuck me,' I brushed it off..." I replied truthfully.

"Mhm, but 'Michał, let's go to my place for an hour' isn't..." She burst out laughing along with Piotrek. That it was also with my best friend, who knew everything..."

"You're good." Really, okay," I said. Piotrek got up to get a beer.

"What do your parents do?" she asked, changing the subject dramatically.

"My mom stays at home, dad runs a business.

" "What business?" she looked at her with those big eyes over her drink or juice, or rather, leftovers.

"Dairy, milk products... stuff like that.

" "Jogobella?!!" She started laughing, I didn't really know why.

"Well, not really, because that... never mind, too." She fished a lemon out of her glass and ate it. Then she did the same with the ice. "And what do you want to do after graduation?"

"When I'm 'big and mature'..." I smiled, and she suddenly leaned in my direction. She touched the tip of my ear with her ice-cold tongue and whispered sensually, "...Jogobella fruit..."

It was hard to understand how we ended up in my apartment. Somehow, instead of heading towards her bus stop, we headed here. She sat on a high bar stool at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

We had some drinks, but I think it was just out of principle, just to keep us busy. Then she put on a CD of atmospheric music (I didn't even know I had any...), looked at the snow falling outside the window for a moment, and then asked,

"Shall we dance, bartender?"

And we danced for a while. My ex never had such ideas, even when she was hitting on me. Now I felt some magic, a pull, a fascination...

She slowly pulled me into the bedroom. Her lips brushed my neck. I closed my eyes; such things don't happen. And even if they did, they couldn't end well.

I tangled my hands in her hair, briefly surrendering to her caresses, then gently lifted her head by the chin and began to savor her lips. She smelled of alcohol and her perfume (Chanel "Chance"). I wanted to strip her of her clothes as quickly as possible, to watch her lie in my bed, completely naked and dependent on me. She, on the other hand, began to unbutton my shirt. Her fingers were cold, which, contrary to appearances, felt very pleasant. I decided not to lag behind – I slipped my hands under her blouse and felt the lace on her bra. I suspected it was black, though Bee was never one for stereotypes. I kissed her passionately, enjoying the moment, though I was probably as impatient as she was. She pushed my hands away and removed her top. The bra was red, which made me feel even hotter. Then, standing a short distance away, she unbuttoned her own jeans and pulled them down as well. A matching thong and bra.

"I can feel you devouring me with your eyes... I'm already that 'extra large Jogobella fruit'..." she whispered. I smiled. As usual, she was right.

She unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants. I felt her breath on my chest, her long hair tickling my stomach as she stood so close. She jerked her head up and, with a suspicious smile, pushed me onto the bed. I had to submit to her, at least for a moment longer.

She knelt over me, running her hands over my torso. I reached out, too, but before I could touch her magnificent breasts, she pulled away and removed her bra herself. The sight of her almost naked body exceeded my wildest dreams. If I could, I would probably take pictures of these magnificent sights, or even make a video right away, which would play over and over again instead of TV commercials... not even commercials, all the other programs...! So I couldn't wait any longer. With a quick movement, I switched our bodies, so that now she was lying beneath me. I sucked violently into her neck, then, lower and lower, into her breasts. They were perfect, exactly as they should be – they fit in my hands, felt good, and tasted sweet. At least to me.

I felt beads of sweat on my forehead, but her body was also damp with sweat. It gleamed in the light from the streetlights outside the window. I felt her hands in my hair, heard her quickened breathing. At one point, she moaned softly, or maybe I imagined it. But at that moment, it didn't matter – encouraged, I reached lower, feeling her magnificent stomach, and then the fabric of her thong. She shivered. I lifted my head to see her face – now her eyes, which had been closed until then, were wide open. Yet, it seemed she saw nothing; her gaze was very blurry.

I ran my tongue over her flat stomach, which also seemed to me to be the most beautiful belly I'd ever licked. I reached her navel. This time I was sure she moaned. At the same time, she lifted her hips slightly, but in the position we were in, the movement was very noticeable to me. I quickly stripped her of the last article of clothing. She surprised me again. I couldn't remember any other woman tasting me so good. She smelled so good. I only knew one thing – whoever invented long foreplay hadn't dealt with a woman. Especially not one like this! I thought to myself that the night was still young, and she probably wasn't in a hurry to get home. We always have plenty of time. Our faces met again. She kissed wonderfully, as if she knew all the best tricks, as if she could read my mind!

I could feel her touching me through my boxers. She even smiled as she took in the situation. She must have liked what she found there.

"Let's get to work, master..." she said, looking me in the eye defiantly while helping me remove my underwear.

And again, she was perfect. Tight enough, like a virgin, yet she knew what to do. Of course, she could only have theoretical knowledge from Lady of the House and Cosmo, never mind. The important thing is that she was wonderful.

I don't know if she faked an orgasm. If so, she could do it every day, instead of saying "good morning" or "good night" on the phone. I tried to make it last longer. But when I felt her nails digging into my back (and, as I've never liked it, it turned me on even more), I relaxed.

"You were..." she began, catching her breath, "...you obviously drank a lot of milk..." she added, laughing at me and looking at what was between my legs. "And besides, you know how to use it." She stroked me lightly and kissed me passionately on the lips.

She fell asleep first, nestled against me as if we were a couple in love. Honestly? I couldn't tell then if I hadn't already fallen in love with her. I wasn't tired. I preferred to look at her, memorizing every detail. As if to convince myself it wasn't all a dream. The most beautiful dream of my life. I wondered why you didn't meet girls like her when you weren't dealing with your exes? Why couldn't you learn everything you needed to know about sex from girls like her?

That night was still long. Winter. The longest of the year. December 22nd. If we fell asleep, it was only for a moment. Until then, I'd thought I knew everything there was to know about bed. It turned out I didn't. She was equally good on top, from the side, from the back, from the front, at handicrafts, and her lips were warm too. Where had she learned that? After all... my God, she was only 18! Out of this world. A blast. I just wanted her to stay with me as long as possible.

"What are you doing..." I asked, looking at my watch (it was 16) and at her, standing in front of the mirror. In my jacket…

"I'm fulfilling my dream," she replied, turning and looking around. In fact, only now did I remind them both that she wanted to feel the rabbits on her naked body. I stood up and stood behind her to get a better look.

"And how?

" "Wonderful." I slowly unzipped her zipper. She was wearing nothing underneath. And she looked divine.

"You're beautiful..." I buried my face in her fragrant hair. I kissed her neck, and she surrendered completely.

"And what do you like most...?" she asked again, looking in the mirror. Standing behind her, I gently slipped off her jacket and then placed my hands on her head.

"This..." I saw her curious expression. "...too, but I think there's something better..." Now my hands cupped her breasts—they're gorgeous, but..." I carefully examined the line of her waist and hips, standing on her buttocks. "...I like this the most..."

We couldn't say anything more. This time we tested every room in the apartment. And the furniture. It's amazing what a bar can be used for...

And then it was Christmas. I spent Christmas Eve with my ex. She asked for another chance. After a while, she begged. Finally, she burst into tears, saying that Christmas is a time for miracles. I couldn't refuse her. I only hoped Bee wouldn't mind... We slept together then, in the same bed, on the same sheets. I couldn't even imagine it was Bee. Even though everything smelled of her (it was amazing that my ex-present didn't smell it. Or maybe she did, but just didn't want to?).

"Hello, Bee..." I kissed her on the cheek. Finally. After New Year's Eve, after my session, after her winter break... we saw each other again. "We haven't talked in ages. Why aren't you replying to my texts, huh?" I tried to sound casual, but I was truly furious that she ignored me.

"Because you shouldn't be writing them to me, babe," she replied. There was no sarcasm, no irony… she simply stated a fact. I was desperately craving her. I smelled her perfume. Even though my girlfriend bought herself a very similar one, it would always remind me of Bee.

"Marta begged me a lot, habit, tears… holidays… you know how…

" "Don't explain, I know." She looked into my eyes as she sipped banana juice from a glass. If she pulled out the ice now and did what she did then… I felt incredibly hot. If she really knew, then… another huge plus. For one quickie with her, here on this sofa, or in the club bathroom, I would leave my own girlfriend, who was standing at the bar buying me a beer (naive!), behind.

"What do you know?" Piotrek suddenly interjected, fortunately having only heard the last sentence of our conversation.

"That you love some girls and sleep with others." She put down her glass and walked toward the dance floor. Piotrek looked at me questioningly. He didn't understand. I, on the other hand, couldn't take my eyes off her. She was damn right about what she said. I regretted it, but I had to agree.

And then something incredible happened. She turned to us and, looking me straight in the eyes, pleaded:

"So what are you waiting for...?" "Should I love her?" I'm not saying it's impossible, but we barely knew each other... I guess she knew I didn't understand, so she looked at my girlfriend. "I'm waiting in the booth on the left."

About a trout that went for a walk and came back without a scratch

Prologue

Winter caught us traveling. My friend and I told each other fairy tales, drank ginger ale, and in our free time, we chatted up strangers. It was wonderful. We were the center of the galaxy. My companion's eyes were huge, like lanterns. When his pupils dilated, I felt a new galaxy forming somewhere in the universe. And when my eyelids settled into their proper places above my cheeks, I could hear explosions from distant corners of the sky.

Having explored the far reaches of America ourselves, we slowly returned home. To Siwe Pole. Over time, my companion became increasingly dreamy. At times, even absent.

"I can't wait," he announced one afternoon.

"What?" I asked instinctively, not taking my eyes off the asphalt road.

"Home," he replied.

"Aha," I had to respond, but I had no idea where we were. "Just a little further," I said, wanting to comfort him.

"Okay," he realized I was probably lying, but he preferred not to think about it.

We didn't talk much the rest of the day.

Winter was autumnal in color. Ahead of us, peaks and rolling hills stretched across the horizon. November fields stretched out on both sides of the road. The desert hues of grain smoothed the slightly uneven terrain. A dozen or so paces ahead, lonely in its uselessness, stood a "yield" sign.

"Probably from the wind," I joked.

The man didn't pick up on the subject.

"Did you hear they found JFK's brain?" I asked.

"No," he said, as if a crab had pinched his butt. "Where, did you hear about that?"

"A long time ago. In that newspaper, Takt."

"Seriously? They write about that kind of crap there?"

The man had a master's degree in Cleaning and Disposal at the University of Siwe Pole. I always felt a bit embarrassed. I was a lousy law professor. A profession with no future.

"Yes," I replied. "Not everyone is eloquent enough to read the Quail Gazette all the time."

"See, that's why you haven't heard that Britney Spears is pregnant with a banana!"

I gasped.

"Really? How is that possible?

" "There are no taboos in this world anymore." The gentleman loved to complain about the consumerist lifestyle. He was perfectly familiar with Tomchak's law of economics. The famous "307" rule. Give everyone 307 pesos a month, and they'll buy a new Peugeot 307. But that was his utopia. "If you have money, you can buy your dog a Rolls Royce," he continued, "there's no taboo."

"Amazing. With a banana... And you don't know when the wedding is?"

"Unfortunately," he replied, disconsolate. "On the next page, I had to... you know," he began making strange, dry, occasionally whistling sounds from his cigarette lungs. In his youth, he'd been called the Marlboro Man, but he didn't like that nickname.

"I don't know," I replied. "That's the point! Tell me, what did you have to do? What was more important than the news of the year!?

" "I had to take a shit," he shouted. "And there was no more paper.

" "I understand—it's best not to pursue such topics.

" "And what about JFK's brain?" he inspected the lining of his hat.

"What?

" "The brain," he drawled impatiently.

"Yes, the brain. Sorry," I mused. "Among the excavations in Retkinia, they found the ruins of a McDonald's. And there, in a fossilized sandwich, a Big Mac, I think. The discovery was made by that famous anthropologist, Retkinia specialist Gawin"—I tried to recall as many details as possible. "He searched for it for 20 years." First, on retkinian discussion forums. He could scour anyone for information. He's terribly hyperactive, even for an anthropologist.

"Aha," the gentleman replied. "That wasn't his cup of tea. Over time, I began to realize that, ever since I met him, it wasn't mine either. His words stuck in my head for a long time.

"Britney. So young, beautiful, and talented, and she hangs out with bananas—I couldn't accept that. She was my idol. A legend, despite her young age. On Sankovsky magazine's list of all-time artists, she surpassed Bob Dylan and the band O-Zone."

Chapter I

But enough about politics. Even though the days were sometimes cloudy, we didn't lose our good spirits. Everything would have been perfectly fine if not for one evening. One night, while I was telling my friend a story about the Non-Existent Knight, he unexpectedly interrupted me mid-punch.

"Henryk, it's just like me." He nervously kneaded the edge of his coat in his hands.

I gasped for air.

"What do you mean?

" "In the sense that I don't exist either."

I looked at his worn coat, his old hat, his tattered scarf, and indeed, he didn't exist. At least not under the coat, or under the hat, and certainly not under the scarf. He simply wasn't there. The steam wasn't rising from his mouth, but from the void behind his collar. I don't remember if I'd noticed it before. Perhaps I had, but I simply pushed the thought away. We often talked, and I could feel it coming. I would have told him, but then something would block it. Such a strange feeling. Like when you know a record inside and out, every bar, every note. And you're listening to it at a party. The sounds of your favorite song fill every thought, every breath. A brilliant solo is about to come on, when suddenly someone switches to the radio. And it is a feeling of disappointment, emptiness, unfulfillment.

That's the simplest and most accurate way to describe my feeling when the thought everyone expected didn't arrive. And since it didn't, there was no point in worrying my friend unnecessarily.

But now tea was over. He'd learned. What's more, the problem wasn't the information itself, but the difficulty it posed. This problem had to be solved so that the gentleman could function normally. That's how it is when everything goes to hell at once.

Chapter II

When we were a dozen or so kilometers from Grey Field, I began to look for a seemingly invisible path hidden in the tall grass. I'd once heard from Old Catfish's uncle about a forest hidden among the meadows. You can't see it from the main trail, which is why it's so difficult to find. The fact that the road leading to it is camouflaged, like a Chinese man in Chinatown, didn't make things any easier. In this forest, the uncle told me, grew a gigantic oak. His name was Baron Boulderwood. He was the king of all trees and knew the answer to almost any question imaginable. Of course, due to his age, he's not satisfactorily versed in contemporary literature or modern technologies. Fortunately, questions in these areas weren't within our area of ​​interest. My uncle had told me about this place many times, at every family celebration. So I felt confident enough to find the Baron. Walking along the edge of the asphalt, I searched for something that might be a hidden path in the field. The gentleman watched me closely the entire time.

"I'll explain later," I replied, exasperated by the protracted search.

He muttered something under his breath. His absence was incredibly troubling. When the temperature rose above freezing, it was impossible to tell where he was looking. His hat pointed north, so

he probably had his gaze fixed on the horizon ahead. Basically, I didn't care. God seemed to be painting the landscape around us from a single sheet of paper. After a few hours of staring at the uninterrupted stretch of meadows, I felt as if I were floating among them. I was the wind. The grass stalks bent under the weight of my fin. And I comb them like my beloved's hair in the morning.

Unfortunately, my friend tore me from the grip of these wonderful illusions.

"Doesn't that look like a road to you?" he pointed with his hat.

"What? Where?" I didn't know whether to look at his nonexistent hand or the concrete monolith of the meadow around him.

"Here, where the grass is a little lower—there was indeed a place where the tops of the plants seemed to have sunk.

I stepped closer. The stems bent, revealing a fragment of a well-trodden path. With each step, more fragments emerged. It was like a mosaic hidden among the grass. We played at piecing together a path from the grass for so long that we lost sight of the path we had been following. There was no turning back. Evening was approaching inexorably, and we still couldn't find the forest. The evening fog was thickening around us. It was nearing the moment it would become permanent. I felt its weight on my shoulders. At some point, it began to thin. The forest came into view. We decided we wouldn't risk wandering blindly and would wait until tomorrow.

Especially since a large bison was guarding the road to Baron. After spreading out our sleeping bags, we admired the sky and the moon shining in the north.

Chapter III

The next day, we bravely entered the forest. After overcoming a barrier of large ferns, we found ourselves on a narrow path. It resembled a corridor among tall trees. Because of my height, I led the way. We walked through the entire, gloomy, dark, and silent forest. Clouds hung low in the sky. They seemed tangled in the treetops. I was slowly losing my mind and hope. The landscape was terribly monotonous. So monotonous that I felt as if we hadn't advanced an inch. It looked like a trick from an old movie. We stood still, and behind us, a film of forest footage played. Just when I thought we had fallen victim to a trap, to fate's decreed monotony, I saw light at the end of the tunnel. I felt an incredible sense of relief. The moment wasn't enveloped in poetry, but in an animalistic, primal, even vulgar feeling.

"So this forest does end eventually," I said, spitting out the remnants of last year's cold.

I looked at the gentleman, expecting an oratorical feast from him. Unfortunately, he only treated me to a wheezing breath, through which no words could have gotten through anyway. I waved my fin at him. Then, tiptoeing, we approached the exit. The forest ended, but only on the right, where a small clearing stretched. This entire area was gathered by a stream. To the left, among the trees, lay an opening. Small, like a hole in a fence. This must have been the passage to the Baron. And just as everything was starting to fall into place, I heard my friend catch his breath. I looked at him, then straight ahead. We were both likely experiencing near-heart attacks at that moment. Although he was no longer in danger. Standing by the stream was the largest bison I'd ever seen.

Fortunately, his back was to us, which gave us a chance. We slowly emerged from behind the trees. In an instant, the space around us diminished disproportionately. The bison seemed within arm's reach. Fortunately, he was busy examining the surface of the water. Taking advantage of his distraction, we quickly jumped into the hole. We tumbled down a small slope, tripping over a dozen roots along the way. We stopped at a large tree.

I stood up, slightly dazed. The world was still spinning a bit. What's more, the tree was moving.

"My God, it's really moving," the gentleman said, leaning against the trunk.

Leaves began to fall, like paratroopers during an Allied landing.

My friend jumped to his feet.

"That must be Baron Boulderwood," I whispered and bowed.

The gentleman didn't understand, so I had to tug at his coat. The tree's bark began to crack. Heavy eyelids lifted, revealing green pupils. A large, toothless mouth gaped.

"Who dares interrupt my rest?" the voice sounded like the clatter of stampeding bison.

"We, dear Baron—" the tension was incredible. I expected a bolt of lightning at any moment. "We sincerely apologize for this intrusion, but we have come on a very important matter."

The Baron glanced at us. He seemed to treat our words rather nonchalantly.

"I suppose that's obvious," he scratched his right cheek with a small twig. "Nobody comes to me about trivial matters," he snorted with a ribald, Sarmatian laugh. "At least that's what they all think."

I waited a moment for the booming of his voice to subside.

"Exactly, we wanted to ask—"

"And what's that bison doing there?!" he screamed, so loud that leaves must have fallen from the trees in the entire forest.

"He was looking at himself in the water," I replied, hoping that would end the foreplay.

"How did he fall for that? There's no philosopher's stone in this river!" I started laughing. I love laughing when I don't know what's going on.

"I wanted him to stop coming for coffee and bothering me all the time," he continued. "Damn, the philosopher's found his way. It's high time we found someone younger for the job. Do you happen to know anyone like that?

" "Bolec, he'd be suitable," said the gentleman.

"What are you talking about, boy?" the Baron said indignantly. "Bolec works for Gandolf from Szczecin now. I see you know nothing. I need to check you out before I give you any advice. "

He thought for a moment, then the wind whispered something in his ear.

"I've got it," he laughed mockingly. "Tell me, what's your favorite poem?

He's done for us here." The gentleman didn't read poetry. So he hid his nonexistent face in his collar. I, on the other hand, hadn't read anything in ages. I had to take a risk and go for something classic.

"Markonius the Green's 'Eradication of Noise'!" I shouted breathlessly.

The Baron looked at us. I thought it was over. Then he smiled, perhaps the most sincerely of his life.

"I love him too," he began gesturing with his branches. "Such a perverse eulogy with a hint of decadence. Markonius was light years ahead of his generation." He came to his senses and calmed the wind around him.

"All right. Speak." He looked at us, carefully measuring the gentleman with his eyes. "What's the matter?"

I grabbed my friend's sleeve before he could say anything. He had no talent for diplomacy.

"So...

" "You don't start a sentence with 'so'!" I felt like I was in a school for the overseers. "Many things irritate me because of my age, but ignoring grammar rules has been making me nauseous since time immemorial.

" "My sincerest apologies. It's just emotion," I bowed low. My fins were trembling paralyzedly. "My friend, as the esteemed Baron can probably see, doesn't exist.

" "Interesting, indeed. How could that have happened?

" "Probably from a shot to the head with a large-caliber weapon. Although for a while, he simply had a hole in his head." I pulled out a photo from our trip to Middletown.

The photo showed us, Mr. Baron, and a pretty waitress, who was sitting on my friend's lap. I showed the photo to Baron.

"She's quite a hottie," he said with a dreamy look in his eyes, then looked at us, slightly confused. "I mean... well... that's right. There was a hole in the head.

" "Exactly. And everything was fine, and now?" I pointed to my friend.

"Yes, but does that bother you, son?" he turned to Mr. Baron.

My friend took a deep breath.

"I'm trapped in my skin," he said with such sadness in his voice that I could give him my last savings and send it to an account in Switzerland. "I can feel her." But I can't see. It's as if her color had locked in pigment.

The Baron sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry, guys, but there's nothing I can do. True, they took one pine and two spruces from my forest last year, so if they brought you back, we'd have, to put it simply, the status quo ante. But unfortunately, that's a matter for someone higher up. You have to go along those birch trees, then turn right by the poplars. Not far away, there's a small hut with a sign saying "cinema." They'll tell you what to do there. That's all I can say on the matter.

"Thank you very much, Baron.

" "No problem. It was nice chatting with you.

We left sad, but with a glimmer of hope in our hearts.

" "But if you have a problem with a wild llama or would like to play a game of utilitarian poker, you're welcome!" the Baron called after us.

Chapter IV

Leaving the Boulder Tree, we followed the path that would lead my friend to the answers we needed. At first, it seemed to lead travelers to the end of the world, but soon, in the distance, we saw a large sign on the roof of a tiny cottage. "Cinema."

"I hope they know something here," the gentleman rushed forward. I could see the imprint of his hand holding his hat. His coat left the illusion of supersonic speed behind him.

The cinema box office was closed. Reaching the door, he began testing their stubbornness with his fists.

"Now, now," came an ancient voice from the distance.

The door opened. A kind old man with eerie, mesmerizing, and very young eyes greeted us with the widest smile we'd ever seen.

"Henry and Your Grace, I presume?" he looked at us fatherly.

"That's right," we confirmed.

"Tickets, please," he said in a friendly, yet irritating voice.

"What tickets?" We began rummaging in our pockets. Suddenly, the gentleman pulled out a small, green slip of paper. I looked in disbelief, then pulled out one myself. I hadn't even had a pocket before.

We handed him the tickets and entered a small room with an old, yellowed screen. The lights dimmed. The projector started rolling. On the screen, we saw the title: "Gentleman; Life and Death" and that strangely familiar voice. Bass, with an unusual resonance.

"This summer. Gentleman accidentally shot himself in the face

with a shotgun. Now he's gone and has to fight for his existence."

"It's that guy from the trailers!" I turned to my friend. "Don La..." I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the ticket agent.

"Shh..." he smiled broadly.

"Is that God?" the gentleman asked.

The guy didn't answer. He just nodded meaningfully.

"I knew it! It even makes sense," I was once again reminded.

We focused on the film.

"He has one chance to redeem himself.

But does he deserve it?"

Suddenly, homemade films appeared on the screen, depicting my friend's childhood. There were quite a few graphic scenes, like the torture of a bee caught on a shoelace at age seven. A candy bar stolen from a store at age twelve. But after all these scenes depicting acts that were at least heinous, came a fragment of film, of life, in which the gentleman gave his last cigarette to some bum in Siwe Pole. True, the man died a month later of lung cancer, but the impact of the gesture was immense.

"Our hero...

gets another chance," a voice announced.

We jumped for joy. On the way out, an older man gave the gentleman a small sachet containing an unidentifiable white powder.

"Take it every day," he wagged his aging finger. "Morning and evening for the next week," and then waved goodbye.

Epilogue

Overjoyed, we returned to Grey Field. I couldn't even express my happiness. Perhaps only the quiet possessed this ability to experience true delight. I couldn't feast my eyes on the junkies pouring out of the gutter in the rain. A sight that many a Red Cross medic would have applauded with a peacock's delight. But this was my world. My new home. The scent of oranges from the stalls mingled with the odor of used condoms on the sidewalks. A mosaic of newspapers floating in puddles. Over time, the gentleman began to regain himself. Finally, the day arrived when he was to appear to me for the first time since we met. He came to me, burying his face in his hands.

"I never thought I would regain myself. My body and my being. Everything!" he trembled with excitement. "I've always thought that the probability of an event is inversely proportional to the wish.

" "You see, nothing is impossible for someone who doesn't have to do it themselves. Come on. Show yourself." He

revealed his face. I was speechless. The hole in his head disappeared, his skin regained its elasticity. His three-day stubble looked velvety and dignified. I had the impression that the universe had just lost its delicate balance.

"And what do I look like?" he asked.

I looked at him more closely, then replied.

"More or less like my legs," I replied diplomatically.

"So...?" he insisted.

"Asymmetrically."