The Algorithm of Chaos - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

In our lovers we love ourselves… Who said it, again? Some sage asshole…

With a strange short shatter V awoke, looked around and reluctantly raised the black lid. The clicked power button started the hardly audible soothing purr in the notebook’s innards.

A hurried knock on the door made V sit up with a startle. He waited for no visitors and accurately paid the rent, even the ball of kids playing sometimes in the gallery outside along the row of identical apartment doors missed knocking at his one.

He got up and walked to answer. Behind the door stood 2ic, his intent glare directed to V’s eyes, unswerving.

‘May I come in?’

‘What the… how did you find me?’

‘They instructed me how to answer this your question but, first, may I?’

‘Sure! Come on in!’

V cautiously looked out along the empty tier-gallery and the iron railing lit by the diffused cones of yellowish bulb-light pouring into the gloom of night. Then he closed, locked, and latched the door.

* * *

19

…because the most urgent is the here and now; the passing moment and the narrow place we occupy are our eternity and infinity. People inclined to considering things and events met along their progress to the better world in heaven or hotter world in hell would most certainly come to the same conclusion and they, eventually, would present the thought in clearer form for eager seekers of reason and sense in their sublunary existence. They, but not me, would enlighten the mankind by radiance of the like thoughts because, still in possession of my aptitude for subtle contemplations, I’ve ceased confiding them to paper…

Dry and drowsy my inkwell keeps its peace under the dust-sealed lid, the quill abducted for household needs, they are a plenty, by some or other from the garrulous bevy of womenfolk at this abode. To skirt about my possible expostulations to the unwarranted trespass, the skirts did it on the sly. The most surprising thing though is that they somehow knew I wouldn’t make a fuss about the quill pilfered for God knows what application.

They know even things untold… Ha! Another brilliant thought worth of being passed to posterity slips by and fades in vain. So let posterity cater for themselves. Let’s hope they’ll accomplish the deed before reaching the venerable age when you know answers to any question under the sun as well as under the moon, be it full or waning, or even hid behind the jealous clouds, yet there is not a single soul caring to forward it, the question, to you. For them you’re just a part in the interior surroundings or landscape. Who would ever start a discussion with a crooked tree in the roadside besides an insane poet? So good luck, posterity, find them yourselves, the answers you cannot pass on. Or some idea like that my thought a moment back… hmm… what was it, again?

Aha! About living within the bounds of a split-second construing finely splendid speculations about eternity and stuff…

Yeah… and, speaking of poets, they are a really rare commodity, a couple for a century, at most. Observe the last one if you please, who will you discern there to be named a poet of merit? I and Quevedo, wit of the Golden Age and… And that’s it! Still, in every street of any one-mule village it gives 2,000 poets a-tinkering their jarring clumsy “verse”. O, tempora! O, mores!

Even at my first incarceration, a month in that common cavern of a jail, I met a poet! Though I don’t undertake to judge the quality of his opuses. It was an Englishman with their barbarous parlance. Communicated in a mix of Lingua Franca and broken Spanish words. A nice young man. What was his name, again? Yes, Will Shake… something… shake shaft or bones… Whatever.

Unsparingly he recollected his spouse Ann left to look after their 3 kids, back in the Island. The jail conditions were just godawful, no latrine, the prisoners discharging their bodily refuse into buckets. The stench!

As always, I was lucky, one month of running nose! That’s the fortune’s fave!

And that Biscayan ogre accused of stealing a mangy ass from a local landlord. Some beefy brute, that ass thief was. The folks in the common cell feared to fart in his presence so that catching the whiff his train of thoughts wouldn’t take a turn towards lusty recreation…

Poor devil Will! He suffered more than others from rough mistreat. Still never lost his optimism and used sharing to me, in poet-to-poet way, he didn’t mind this kind of abuse because of being a bisexual and the accumulated penetrating impact will find a sublimed vent in his future sonnets or, maybe, plays. Yet, Mr. Shakesomething learned the hard way, truly and firsthand, what Spanish prison was…

But still, who namely instills us our thoughts? God? Devil?

The second producer enjoys the well-deserved respect for his product never disappoiunts the consumer—the finest evil in the market for any trend in circulation currently or cashback within a business week. While the God made goods are, well, a kind of swaying from excellent to so-so, to put it gently. Depending on your luck and his mood, perhaps. Especially His mood! And then industrial espionage, you know, stealing… ahem!. copy-pasting proprietary know-how from His competitor…

The weather-cock policy in action. Now He creates Eve. O my God! Thank you! Halleluyah! The next day He demolishes Gomorrah which is a genocidal action, to say the least, in relation to stray cats, dogs, sheep herds, innocent, enjoying their night repose. For a lengthier exposure you might want consult the sect of vegans with their perennial chant about sad look in the eyes of Cow and other domesticated hostages to “humans’” gluttony. Moody, moody… Or are there several Gods doing shifts?

O, thank God, I dropped my habit of