В колонках играет - Lovex "Guardian Angel"
Настроение сейчас - Чертова меланхолия...

London… I wish I were there… Moscow seems to me uncomfortable with its cataclysms. I’m standing in front of the window with a cup of calefactory coffee and looking outside at dying sunbeams playing on the window of the next door house… The snow is falling down. It is like white flies or tiny petals of little roses… And you are drowning in the feeling of something magic, of something marvellous… Or may be it is my good mood after the meeting with the best person on the Earth. Just, may be, not with the best on the Earth, but undoubtedly the best in physics… After my meeting with Z.R. I adore and respect her, really. But… It was my little lyrical deviation. I am overfilled with the feeling of magic…My feeling is inexplicable; I’m drowning in the silent suffocation. But this suffocation is not cruel, it’s not such situation when you don’t have air to breath, it’s sweet suffocation when you are waiting for a wonder, for happiness… Really, don’t know… This feeling is nestling inside me. And I’m like a cup, which is exasperated with warmth, like with water. I’m looking at the snow which is rapidly changing its color in different perspectives, falling down and crashing and melting, reaching the Earth’s face… From silver to golden-red, from golden-red to lilac…It’s unusual and artificial beauty, but it attracts your attention… And then, after few moments, it stops falling and the fairytale is dying, to resurrect once again… Just, it’s cool, but not mien… And London… It’s always rainy, full of prudish Englishmen, shops with bags and badges… Oh, it’s marvelous… I can find no city in Europe like London… Neither beautiful and expensive, but vulgar and licentious France, nor Germany(in spite of my love to this country), neither wonderful Prague with its architecture, nor Romania with enchanted poor and gypsies, but London has stolen my heart and doesn’t want to give it back to me… I’m reading a book now, which was written by one of my favorite writers; the author is Charles Dickens, and the book is called “Great expectations”. Dickens is drawing a picture of old London with its suburbia, morrows and castles. I’m reading it now and… I can vividly imagine the landscape of describing locality, its wild beauty and misery of early misty morn, the hero’s fear forward cemetery, unconsciousness in the strange ancient castle, where insane eighty-five years old mistress lived… Her appearance was queer, because she was dressed in old yellow wedding dress and had dead flowers in her coiffure. I also can imagine country house’s conscious and nature’s proximity. I can’t remove anything and can’t add anything while reading too. Is it greatness? The book is filled with light, barely seen features. Dickens has stringed details-beads on the thread and a great, colorful story appeared. But, if to speak frankly, I can’t even imagine some possible continuing of the story. I read only a half of “Great expectations”, but I’m sure that the continuing of the story will be as exciting and marvelous to read as it is now. London… I wish I were there. I want to walk there in parks, to inhale barely damp air and get wet walking in the rain, then to jump in paddles, to go to a shop and buy a great lot of souvenirs… To fly away… But to fly away early, at five or seven o’clock, because I want to feel and to touch, if it’s possibleб the mist, which is each morn in the countryside, in the morrow places…
Нет, я с ума не сошла... просто сделала перевод одного своего поста... народ, кому не лень - прочитайте, откомментте, просто очень надо!!!