Рњрѕр»с‡р°с‚ Р”рѕрјр° (molchat Doma) - Рўсѓрґрѕрѕ (sudno) Direct

He reached for a glass of lukewarm tea, but his hand stopped. On the table lay a small, white pill and a copy of a poem by Boris Ryzhy. He knew the lines by heart now. Living is difficult and expensive, but dying is easy and free. The irony was the only thing that made him smile lately, a sharp, jagged twitch of the lips.

The music didn't make him feel better, but it made the emptiness feel like a place he could inhabit. It was the sound of the hallways he walked, the stale bread he ate, and the silence of the people he passed in the street. He reached for a glass of lukewarm tea, but his hand stopped

He turned away from the world and laid back down on the bed. The song looped, the jagged guitar riff cutting through the static of his thoughts. The "Sudno"—the bedpan, the vessel, the end. He closed his eyes, letting the cold waves of the synthesizer wash over him until the room, the city, and the gray sky finally dissolved into the beat. Living is difficult and expensive, but dying is