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On the hill itself, the BM undertook to teach me to ride.
I chose equipment, explained how to put my feet and hold sticks, how to turn and brake, pulled me out of a snowdrift many times, picked out the snow from my ski boots over and over again and admired with me if I could.
When we went to get warm, we were already waited by the table and hot wine.

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As it all went on for a long time, the robe managed to take on the shape of the body of its true master, and every other who encroached on this dark green shrine seemed to me a caricature, a vile reminder of Ariadne and Solveig, who were not looking for good from good, but sticking down below legs, then thin, then thick, then short, instantly exterminated in me every sexual desire.
The thin and wet intellectual who came out of the bathroom was personally me (the friend looked with his mouth open and probably thought that maybe this is now accepted) put out the door.
The rage that led me gave me strength, I pulled off his robe, torn at the seams somewhere, and then flew to the stairwell of the junk in which he came.

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