ikuda
mne ne det'sya ot kretinskoj telefonnoj  igry s ee mamashej, chto vse ushli, vse
ushlo, chto onichegovekovivanie, chto Georges umer, chto Very moej net vse bol'she
i bol'she, no  vot,  prizhimalsya  k nej, vglyadyvalsya v ogromnoe beloe pyatno ee
lica s rodinkoj na  nosu,  kotoraya, konechno,  davno  istlela,  v  ee  shiroko
otkrytye, nichego ne vyrazhayushchie, detskie takie glaza, prizhimalsya i veril v ee
volshebnoe, ritual'noe "horosho", i zhizn' sebe  carskuyu voobrazhal v temnote, i
nichego mne drugogo ne nado bylo, krome chtoby vot tak.