The scent of jasmine

Pure Water.

The warm spray of the shower woke her from sleep every day. She had always enjoyed these morning baths under a strong stream of water, her white skin welcoming the tiny diamond drops. Her brown hair, falling past her shoulders, now wet and clumped into thick strands, looked like seaweed. She was slim, but not excessively so. Her breasts, firm as marble, intertwined in the streams of water, seemed to resemble two ripe oranges in wicker baskets. Her hands seemed to extract sweet juice from them, which, as it traveled downward, filled the calyx of her navel, bathed the cavern of the watery curtain, and then enveloped her strong thighs. She loved the lather. She always enjoyed soaping her body, doing it slowly to derive maximum pleasure. Her slender fingers, like a team of explorers, explored her delicate curves once again. The foaming water flowing between her shapely buttocks looked like waves crashing over two deserted islands. The only thing keeping this heavenly creature grounded were her long, smooth legs. Or perhaps her tiny feet lifted her a few millimeters above the surface of the puddle forming beneath her? She looked like an angel; her beauty alone could have replaced her wings... In the crystal shower, she looked immortal, like an ancient insect immersed in amber. When she emerged from the shower, she threw on only a bathrobe as transparent as morning dew; she was uninhibited; she lived alone.

Her house was simply furnished: plain cabinets, a few shelves, a single mirror on a white wall. And no clock. Perhaps this was her way of stopping time, or perhaps time was simply irrelevant to her. Among the standard furniture, the only thing that stood out was a large white wooden bed carved with jasmine flowers. When she lay down on it, she resembled Cleopatra taking a milk bath. But she was more beautiful than the queen... She closed her eyes; at least in her memories, she wasn't lonely...

The scent of flowers wafted through the room.

The murky water.

The sounds of the piano echoed throughout the hall, lending it a somber atmosphere. Each flick of the pianist's wrist drew from the instrument an increasingly stronger wave of emotion, transformed into a spontaneous melody. What must this man have endured to see so much aggression in his music? He enjoyed listening to Chopin and Beethoven, but he never played their works himself. He valued their work and considered himself unworthy of imitating them, even though he would certainly surprise even the composers themselves with his talent. He liked to compare himself to Mozart, always telling himself, "Mozart and I are full of expression," or "Mozart and I play equally dynamically." Mozart probably wouldn't even turn in his grave for such a comparison. It's a shame, however, that no one could admire his talent; he was alone.

The vast room, with a piano in the center, was mostly filled with bookshelves. Everything could be found here, all the literature that had shaped the world in some way. These included works from "Pinochio" to bestsellers like the Koran and the Bible. One of his favorites was "Journey to Heaven," which he eagerly returned to again and again. However, he disliked literature dealing with diabolism in its broadest sense. He always considered tales of Satan and demons exaggerated, written through the prism of human fear. The only exceptions were Mikhail Bulgakov's "The Master and Margarita" and Goethe's "Faust," which he so eagerly read. The entire library contained approximately 50,000 titles covering genres such as Satanism, philosophy, religion, science, fairy tales, legends, and more. He read them all; he had plenty of time for them... and no other pursuits. The eternal white light never faded here.

Silt.

The dirty streets I pass have always made me nauseous. The people are so ordinary I barely notice them, as if they blended into the gray of the buildings. But when I look closer, I see wrinkled, worn-out faces, a twin of the cracked walls of houses whose plaster has long since fallen. And that stench. It's hard to tell if these are the tired bodies of passersby or a leak from the sewers. And above me, clouds, or rather a mirror reflecting the earth's grayness. Somewhere in the alley, a fight was raging. Two dogs, awakened from their sleep, fought in revenge for the mangled puppies. One, younger, had outlasted the black attacker. The other, older, more experienced despite knowing life better, would die because he was fighting three dogs at once, and his entire body was bleeding. They were only dogs... so why, for a moment, did I have the impression they were people? Someone was urinating at someone's door. Did they think their life was a toilet? There was so much evil and contempt around, like a thick fog, blocking our progress.

Life is like a sieve. We pour through it in the hope of purification. We constantly have to make the right decisions so that our souls remain like untroubled water. As I walk through life, through the city, I try to reject the impure. Life is purgatory...

What is the meaning of life? They say when you know the answer to this question, you advance, you leave this world because there's no point in staying. What is the meaning of life?

I don't know when it happened or how. Suddenly, my entire world was reduced to a sphere of cold cobblestones and a black puddle. I didn't even notice when I fell. Soon I would leave this place, finally. My body went numb; I had to leave it. My eyes were blinded, so I would abandon it. I always thought that when I left, I would see a bright light at the end of the tunnel. Meanwhile, all I can smell is jasmine...