Want, I shall tell about myself still...
I live in an apartment on 9 floor on surburb of city.
Windows of my room leave on a decline, and I every day observe, how the grey callous city swallows the infernal sun. And at night I look at millions burning windows and I understand, that everyone who lives in them, will die. Independently whom they were, how much earned, with whom slept{burn}... But in sepulchral dampness their bodies because their souls already for a long time have decayed will decay only... The City of Kursk - a cemetery of alive people. Criminal creatures, careerists, prostitutes and rascals... All to spit on culture, art, even on itself and associates...
In Kursk of only 10 cemeteries. Oldest of them - Kherson. When you walk on it in twilight, apparently, that century trees look to you deeply in soul...
And on the Southern cemetery bury unknown people, criminals, victims of abortion, human bodies and remains... There I understand, that the person - a usual piece of meat...
I am lonely. My girl has died. On her tomb every Saturday I bring white lilies.
I like winter when the frost and a cold exhausts people in houses, and the city is covered by a snow, as if{as} a shroud. I walk in a warm leather raincoat on dead city and I enjoy singing of a blizzard...
From the literature I read stories of Russian writers about necrofill and death, about sufferings of a gothic style.
I can recommend to you these writers.
He is Oleg Postnov and Mamleyev. If will not find, I shall translate them and I shall send all interested persons...
Write somebody on mine e-mail
lord-kursk-goth@yandex.ru
I so do not have not enough interlocutors...