The diary of a dreamer who loved collecting souls

August 16, 1984.

The captivating fragrance of the flowers opened to the sun, just swirled in the soft, moist air, gently tickled the nose. The sky was sad, covering young green forests, frisky mountain streams, and endless nomadic steppes with silver water droplets.

In front of me, on a rural road, in a mess of earth broken by many feet, shoots of new plants are slowly making their way. Deftly throwing off clods of black soil from young leaves, they strive for the blue sky. Closing my eyes for a split second, I open them and don't believe it. Blue, green, and purple roses, taking on human faces, seem to peer into my very soul. A mighty primordial force of nature lurked in them, which did not allow one to tear away the admiring gaze. Even the magic that was happening did not allow him to move a little, so everything inside was trembling with sweet excitement.

The fire of desire burns inside. The electrical tension that causes every cell in my body to shake in ecstasy increases, giving rise to convulsive chaotic movements. With ferocious jerks, I begin tirelessly tearing off the green stems, tearing out the young shoots from the base. I want to get my hands on everything that covers the restless gaze, the throbbing pressure in my temples is increasing. A moment later, I'm already watching myself from the side, my eyes bulging to the extreme, fixed on only one goal. My adam's apple rises frequently, leaning forward, and I swallow the viscous saliva. The skin of the thin white fingers, torn by thin, sharp thorns, is stained with bloody, hot porridge, dripping from the brushes onto the fallen, withering petals. A sharp pain penetrates from the top of the head to the toes, torturing the spirit. The broken flowers burn up one by one in his hands, like a handful of gunpowder, burning painfully, turning into dark, lifeless ashes. There remains a single whole rose, the graceful, haughty queen of all that is beautiful. Trying to reach out, I strain my muscles to the point of spasm, probably an invisible barrier has passed between us forever. I stumble and fall, unable to lift my heavy head, pinned down by an invisible force. Roughened, bony palms, rapidly protruding from the muddy soil, like a bear trap, cut hard into the ribs protruding far forward. Tearing the fragile skin on his chest, firmly grasping his naked, wet, fluttering heart, they pull him down. Cold sweat broke out, giving his chilled body chills. Convulsing, gasping for air for a second with lungs petrified by fright, I woke up.

September 28, 1984.

I saw her for the first time today! Damn it, how pretty is a beauty! The light scent of perfume pleasantly made my head spin when small heels tapped past me, along the wide corridor of the university. The smooth curves of her fresh body, neatly wrapped in a fashionable white coat, caught the eye, stronger than iron, ringing fetters. A light spring breeze, if it could, would whisper incessantly about the virtues of this devil. Her eyes were like two oceans: deep, clear, in which a ship would gladly sink, and under the proud name of a man's heart, they shone brighter than precious diamonds. A confident, perky smile that forms shallow, delicate dimples at the corners of my mouth, these are skillfully placed snares that captivated my will like the most insidious trap. Freshman Lena, that was her name, was almost a month late for the start of classes.