Snow again today. The white veil, fluffy and weightless in appearance, has not been touched by man. In an empty ward with a bunch of toys and picture books, in the very center of it sits a boy of six or seven years old in appearance - no more. He has thick blond hair that curls at the ends and hazy blue eyes that a child rubs with his fists. He lies on the soft rug next to the bunk, with colored chalk clutched in one hand. The boy examines the drawing on the album sheet and smiles, pleased with himself. There, a short girl in a violet dress smiles and a man next to her - obviously her husband - holding greens, brilliant green and green sweets, as well as buttons, which he holds out to a man in a white coat - "Uncle Doctor". The artist himself is not in this picture. As it is not in the rest of the drawings. The boy thinks about this and many other things. Why is he sitting here? Where are his peers? Will Mommy take him home for the weekend? Loaded with these thoughts, he sighs, pressing his cheek against the piece of paper. Yawning, the baby closes his eyes, releasing the chalk from his hands. New drugs make me sleepy. - Mika! Half asleep, they picked him up, shaking him. Waking up, the boy was shrunken from the cold. The nurse who brought the lunch promptly moved him to the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and, taking his small hands in his own, examined them with a convulsive sigh. - Don't take the paper without me and the other aunt, okay? You could cut yourself. And do not lie on the floor - you will catch a cold. Then you may need drops. We can't give them to you, remember? Rolling her eyes, Michaela nodded. From resentment, he pursed his lips, not listening to the guy in the medical uniform. Mika looked at one point and, listening to the sound of the wind outside the window, was silent. He looked away to the drawing and noticed that the red had been replaced by black. Lots and lots of black. So Michaela, a hemophiliac, cried for the first time, just to get attention.

They were nine. Mikaela hiding behind his doctor, and Yuichiro, who has a cast on his leg. - Get acquainted. The man squatted down, and the boy next to him recoiled in fear. But he was certainly interested. “Mika, this is Yuichiro-kun. We had nowhere to place him, but, fortunately, your parents were not against it. Yuu-kun, this is Michaela-kun. I think your parents already warned you about him. Try to make friends, okay? This was the first parting word for the two of them. Yuuichiro is a restless boy, and adults would often visit their famous ward number five hundred and thirty for safety. - You're a foreigner, right? When he got tired of reading, Yuichiro climbed onto the windowsill. - My mother is Russian, but my father is Japanese. - Wow! It's probably fun. What language do you speak at home? Do you have bears or pandas at home? Yui, who was about to open the window, stopped short. He remembered the words spoken by his mother: “This boy is sick. Please don't bring anything spicy with you - I know you love that. And never open the windows: adults will do it themselves if they need to. He noticed in time that his roommate was silent, just as he felt his expectant gaze on him. - We… We are not going home. - BUT? Where do you live then? - Here. It was obvious that Mika was embarrassed. Noticeable, perhaps, to anyone, but not Yui. - You're lying, this does not happen! He said it more out of surprise than outrage. - I am not lying! - in response, Michaela was really indignant. “That doesn’t happen,” the boy repeated, pouting. - Christmas is coming soon! And then - New Year! It cannot be that a child is left without gifts on this holiday, as my mother always says. And also, if you make a wish at exactly midnight, it will definitely come true. - Will the truth come true? Looking at Miki's mesmerized face, Yuichiro grinned triumphantly with a nod. - But you have to be good, otherwise Santa Claus won't come. "Tell me what I need to do, please, Yuu-chan." - Well, write it down ... Wait, what did you call me? - Uncle Ferid always calls me "Mika-chan" and says that he loves me very much. But Aunt Krul said that means we're friends, - Michaela clenched his fingers into the castle and fell silent for a while, hesitating. - Do not you like it? Snorting, Yui smiled. He walked closer to his neighbor and held out his hand, which he shook in bewilderment. Yui's hand, unlike Miki's, is surprisingly warm. - Let's be friends? It seems that his heart, this tiny part of the body, is about to burst. - I'll tell you how to fool Santa Claus. Let me tell you about my school. And you're talking about yours. - I... I don't go to school. - Wow, you're lucky! That is OK. I'll teach you how to draw and, if you can do it, I'll make an airplane. - Can you make planes? - the surprise of the child knew no bounds. - Yes, paper! But I bet when I grow up, I'll build a bunch of planes myself and the Prime Minister himself and the Emperor will come to shake my hand together. Yui was proud of himself. He made a friend so quickly. Due to his age, he did not understand at all what he had become for Mika. - Shall we draw? And that is quite boring. You do not have a prefix, as I see. Michaela shook his head, and for greater understanding - twice. - I'm not allowed to draw. I might cut myself. Mika pursed his lips again, sighing. Something vilely sucked under the spoon. “Hmm…” Yui brightened up. - Wait a second, I'm here. He rushed away from the ward, and Mika could only look at his back. New friend disappeared for almost ten minutes and returned out of breath. In his hands were a jacket, a scarf and ... - Here! Yuichiro put a pair of warm gloves into the hands of others. “That way you won’t cut yourself, right?” - Yes ... Yes, it is. Thank you, Yuu-chan. He put on gloves and suddenly felt his cheeks burning. - Now let's draw! You'll see, I'll become the greatest artist. Yui is so self-confident, so stupid and naive. Mika laughed. Happiness filled him. But joyful times are fleeting. Yuichiro was discharged the following week. And even though he, with an uncertain smile, assured his friend that he would “visit him somehow,” Mika believed that he would come. Even though I knew it wouldn't happen.

The twelfth winter of Michaela has arrived. And just like last year, he writes to Santa. “Please heal me” “I behaved well, so please, at least this year they can take me home” “Is my new mother kinder than the previous one?” “Santa, I'm doing bad things, but let Yui-chan get into my room again. Or at least this hospital. If I ask too much, can he just visit me once? The children with whom he went to general procedures constantly said that Santa did not exist. But that day Mika found out they were lying. The whole class came. He was warned - "you will be visited on Christmas Eve." - Yo, Mika! I brought the guys from the class. Yuichiro smiled - sincerely and brightly. Unlike his own, pity froze on the faces of his classmates. Yes, they definitely knew - Mika is sick, and his illness is hard to cure. He probably won't live to be thirty. He cannot get hurt, pricked - the blood does not coagulate without special preparations. He can not do any drips or blood transfusions. He was unlucky with his parents: his mother is a carrier of the gene, his father is sick himself, but in a much milder form. It is unlikely that Mika would have been helped by home treatment. - Nice to meet you, Michaela. The class president holds out her hand to him, and Micah takes it. "Lie". - Guys, okay, you can go. Yuichiro said goodbye to them half an hour later, which made Miku incredibly happy. All the same, they only whispered and hesitated on the spot. “You did come, Yui-chan. - When we first met, I lived far away. And now dad was put in some kind of bump in this hospital, well, and ... - he smiled with an embarrassed smile unusual for him, scratching his cheek. - Here I am. This time I firmly promise to visit you. He ruffled Michaela's blond hair. - Ahaha, they are really soft! Not holding back a smile, Mika took out gloves from under the mattress. "It's yours, Yuu-chan. They are still small for me. - Oh, so you don't draw anymore? There seemed to be disappointment in his voice. “I lost such a wonderful teacher. - Then I'll break my leg again. Mika immediately waved his hands and head. “Yuu-chan, I won’t forgive myself for this. - Come on, I liked these unscheduled holidays! - Well without school? Yuichiro paused, looking into his eyes. He seemed serious as never before. - Good with you. Mika felt his heart skip a beat.

Yuuichiro kept his promise. He came at least once every two weeks. He used to visit more often in the summer, but left much earlier. But in winter he even managed to skip, but he always stayed late. Once every three days Mika saw him on the threshold of his room. So Mikaela lived - from winter to winter. He realized his feelings at the age of fourteen. The guy blushed a little - at such moments, Yuichiro always said that he seemed healthier - he smiled, surreptitiously watching his friend, and as if inadvertently touched other people's fingers with his own. Yui never pulled his hands back. - If you studied with us, girls would hang on you. They fall for this type. - Tell them that my heart is already taken. “Hah, you are a true idol. Mika smiled faintly as he looked fondly at Yui's hand, which was clasping his own. This year he is much worse, but the doctors say it is temporary - the influence of weather, sun, transitional age and everything else. - How are you doing in your studies? "School is the same as always," he snorted. I don't even want to talk. But in the art house, my work is taken to the exhibition, ”he said proudly. Are you talking about that comic? No, no, it hasn't been finalized yet. Remember when I said I was practicing oil painting? Mika nodded. Sensei liked it. He said that I have a very interesting technique and idea. I wanted to show some kind of light passing through the picture, so I preferred canvas to glass. “Yuu-chan, you will go far. Tell me about her, - his voice sounded quiet and peaceful. While stroking the other's hand with his thumb, Yuuichiro covered it with his other hand. - I'll pass on his words better. Sensei said that through the abstract outline you can see the figure, and the light outline emphasizes… Um, holiness? - such words embarrassed Yui. - I also made the first layer black and then white. In fact, I just ran out of red paint, and the old man spewed some philosophical nonsense, - he laughed, squeezing the other hand tighter. - At the age of six, I also didn’t have a red crayon at hand; I had to draw in black. I don't remember at all why I did it. - Perhaps it was blood? Mika shrugged. He didn't want to think about it. Understanding his position, Yui continued, poking his cold thin fingers with the tip of his nose. - More ... There was a lot of blue: sky blue, deep blue, almost blue, actually white. I couldn't find the right shade. Sensei was surprised by this work of mine, he stood near it for a long time. I will never forget his words - goosebumps like now: “this ... It clings to life, it dies, but why are the tones so light and light? I see agony, I see hope. God, this is so cruel." - What did you call her? Mikaela decided to ask when Yui stopped talking. - "To Eden," - he again looked into the eyes of the sick guy, who had a hard time focusing his eyes. - Garden of Eden? Goosebumps ran down Miki's skin now. - I'm scared. - Me too. Yui leans towards him and, without letting go of his hand, gently hugs him. He got too attached to this guy. Yuichiro can't say "don't go" because it doesn't depend on Miki. And how I would like it to depend. Michaela is like a spring flower in winter. He, who has grown up at the wrong time, fades before he has time to bloom. He is turning pale and losing weight every day, but Yui believes in the predictions of the attending physician and his father: "everything will be fine, the body needs time to readjust." But the guy was so worried that Mika was sleeping more and more often. He runs his hand through someone else's hair and, hearing measured breathing, rightly concludes that his friend dozed off. - Sweet dreams, Mika. Yuuichiro briefly touches the other's lips with his own, lingering on them for only a short time, and leaves. What he doesn't know is that Michaela was only pretending to be asleep.

Mika is crying soundlessly, and tears are rolling down from the corners of his eyes. His father, as if missing, finally came to visit his sick son. He, an adult, kneels by the bed of his sixteen year old child and begs for forgiveness. And Mika would be happy if he knew that this is a sincere impulse of the soul - the main thing is that it is absolutely causeless. But no, this is not so - he read the bitterness in the face of his already elderly doctor. Mika is dying. He no longer walks on his own - only on crutches and only within this ward. Like he saw something else in this fucking life. He is as pale as freshly laundered sheets. The golden hair is faded and its color is more like cut millet. Michaela's hands are trembling. As he writes, large drops break on the paper. He howls and almost chokes, biting his lips. He folds the letter into an airplane and hides it in the nightstand. Yui comes the next day. He says he knows everything. She says she will do anything for him. He doesn't let go of Mikaela, clasps him in his arms and lets him talk. And he says. Says it's not fair. He says that he always knew that he would die, but he never thought that so early. He says he has never been to his mother's grave. He says that, ready for death, standing on its threshold, he is afraid of the inevitable. Says Yui is everything to him. And concludes: - I do not want to die. Mika needs not salvation - he can no longer be helped, but a placebo. Yui holds a strange face in her palms. He brushes her hair away from Michaela's face and kisses her on the lips. He listens to his quiet speeches, to his prayers. He had never seen such a desperate grip on the most ordinary, unremarkable life - never appreciated his own. - I will die. - I'll die too. We all will die. He presses his forehead against someone else's, not averting his eyes. - You are "To Eden", Mika. You are that image, you are in everything: in my comings here, in my paintings, in my family. Yes, I'm healthy. Yes I live full life. But do these criteria determine how quickly a person is forgotten? I'm only sixteen, but I swear I'll never forget you. You are everything to me too, Mika. Mika smiles bitterly. He would like to live his whole life around Yui. Michaela, on the one hand, is sorry that he dooms someone who is so dear to him to loneliness, but on the other hand, he does not want to be forgotten. "Damn it, Yuu-chan, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be so sorry." You are terrible. He covers other people's palms with his own and it seems that the softened look has become clearer. - Yeah, and if not for you, I would not have started drawing and would not have spent so much nerves. If anyone here is terrible, then only you! Yuuichirou laughs softly, his laughter partially drowned out by the contact of his lips. Quite childish. Yui didn't have time to teach him how to kiss. Mika closes her eyes and presses her cheek against Yui's shoulder. He is pulled back to sleep. Yuichiro is full of bitterness and anger at himself: if he came more often, Mika would not be so lonely. He blankly looks at the guy and whispers under his ear, stroking his head: - This is mine. favorite poem. Will you listen? ___

"Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness"

Mikaela will be gone very soon. He dies like a decorative kitten that must not be touched. But even such a life does not mean that its outcome should be taken for granted.

"Let it smolder endlessly in a furious sunset"

Maybe he shouldn't have been born. That would be easier. And not so painful. Day by day he is weaker, and wakes up even less often - he loses strength for life, but not craving for it.

"Anger burns at how the mortal world goes out"

Michaela no longer gets out of bed and doesn't eat; just drink a lot. The father, along with his next wife - this time pregnant - and their little son visit Mika more often. And he is glad, seriously glad: he likes this kind woman who does not feel pity for him, his half-brother, who does not come without a gift, whether it be a postcard or a pebble from the asphalt. He even forgave his father. Mika never knew how to harbor a grudge, and what's the point now.

“Let the wise men say that only peace of darkness is right. And do not kindle a smoldering fire.

Two months later, Mika was gone. After falling asleep a few days ago, he never woke up. This is the best death he could have hoped for. Painless for both his body and soul. But others didn't think so. Innumerable “ifs” hung in the air. If Yui showed him what the world is? What if his own father had taken him to his dead mother? If the drugs were different? There will be no end to regrets. This chamber still smelled of Mika, and it is impossible to believe that its owner is not alive. Too bright, everything is too alive. Here are scattered books, here are white gloves and food, which he never touched. Yes, this room is still breathing life! Impossible, impossible! For the first time, Yuu cries when she sees his corpse with her own eyes. Just as pale and cold as ever. Peaceful. Hey, he's just sleeping, must be, right? Right? It's all a hoax, everyone makes a fool of him, Yui knows. He couldn't die, it's Mika. Mika who taught him English language. Mika, who always beat him at cards. Mika, the only one of his kind who played mafia with equanimity. Can it not be? Anyone, anytime, but not his Miki. Just not him. “Uh… He’s just… Yui is trying to collect herself. He is shaking and his voice is trembling. Eyes were instantly covered with a tear veil. - Mika, wake up! This is not funny, Mika! He shook the lifeless body by the shoulders and shouted at him, demanding to wake up. - Well, what are you doing?! Stop, please, y-you already played me. I beg you... I beg you, Mika, get up! He sobs, feeling stinging tears on his cheeks. He does not leave attempts to shout to Miki. He nearly loses his mind when a pulseless hand falls out of his own. How, well, how to say that the person he clumsily kissed less than a week ago is just a corpse? That there was nothing left of him but this body, in which there is no life. That Michaela really went to Eden. Yuuichiro falls to his knees and, covering his mouth with his hands, howls, swallowing tears. - Come back... Come back... I beg you, I will do everything... But just like last time, he is not capable of anything.

“Do not go humbly into the dusk of eternal darkness. Anger burns at how the mortal world goes out.

He was buried a few days later, during the fateful winter season. Only those closest to him were present: Yuichiro, father, and old Doctor-san. "Stay with me until death" It's too little to leave. "Tell about your life" This boring and stupid life was necessary for Mika, he needed an external world full of ugliness. He loved him in ignorance. Michaela rests in the ground. Nothing worries him anymore. He is mute, he is deaf, he is blind to all living things. And when his body decomposes, memories of the warmest and most intimate will cool down; details will be forgotten and all memory will turn into perishable dullness. It hurts too much.

This is for you. The technician found it in Mika's nightstand. - Thanks a lot. Yuuichiro takes a carelessly made paper airplane from the doctor's hands, on the wing of which is written in small words: "For Yui-chan." Already at home, he opens the sheet. It has raised spots and crooked, almost illegible handwriting. “Hey Yuu-chan, how long has it been? I'm already dead, right? God, Yuu-chan, if only you knew how creepy it is, how scary it is. DO NOT HELP me anymore. I'm left alone with my disease and I'm just fucking waiting for it to win. All wasted. All these therapies, treatments, consolations. It would be better if I lived even less, but a full life, and not like a damn plant. That would be more honest, right? But... In that case, I wouldn't have met you, Yuu-chan. And this, believe me, is worth a lot. You gave me an incentive to live. You are my meaning, my hope, my love. Yes I love you. I love like I have never loved before. I love life more. You know it's not just words. This letter is my confession, my message to you. I want to confess as a spirit. I've always envied you, Yuu-chan. You have your whole life ahead of you, joyful and carefree. You are a talented artist and truly good man. I could not truly love anyone else. Do not forget me. I don't want you to forget me. Maybe you won't be happy. Maybe you spit. Maybe even send me and my selfishness to hell. But I had to say it. I want you to be mine and mine only, Yuu-chan. But I am weak and can never be your support. Do you think these words are in the wind? Well, you're right. I'm a moron, an idiot, but be with me, please. Yuu-chan, I'm not going to the Garden of Eden. I am a sinner and there is a place reserved for me in hell. But you don't think so, do you? So save me I don't know how, I don't know if you need it. But save. I can not do it anymore. I'm off. I need you. Please, Yuu-chan. I gave you my all. I have nothing left. Protect me, because I myself am no longer capable of this.

Sincerely loving you, Michaela

» What is wrong with this life? If anyone was worthy of it, it was Mika, and not a person who, even after many years, will not look at the eternal message without tears. “Thank you Mika for being you. You have always lived - did not exist. You may think that forgetting is easy, but it's not at all. I can't, I'm actually that weak one. I do not know if I will become a famous artist, and I understand that neither the Prime Minister nor the Emperor will shake my hand. But please, watch me. Believe in me and I will be there. See you soon, Mika.

Forever yours, Yuichiro

". He will not send this letter - it will be kept in a box hidden in the attic. It contains small tattered gloves, a photograph of them together, and two letters. Both are farewell.

I watched a wonderful, cool, wonderful, amazing film Interstellar (translated as Interstellar) last night 😉 before that I read two lines of resentations:
Review No. 1.: "This is the best fiction in the last 50 years"
Review #2: "There are 10 actors in the film."
Plus, I found a budget on film search: $ 160 million.
*
what I thought: 10 not-so-famous actors are not enough for a budget of 160 million and it was not clear what 160 lyams went to. And there are no special effects like in Transformers, and large-scale historical views ... BUT, approximately in the middle of the film, a world cinema star wakes up from hypersleep ... and this is at least $ 15 million, it remains to find the remaining 145)
* but not about this situation, but about the poem. There it sounds solid twice ... and I did not catch the meaning (sadness). So I think I’ll write a post, reprint the verse and understand the meaning)
*
so google help me
The literal version of the translation of the poem from the dubbing of "Interstellar":

Do not go humbly, into the twilight of eternal darkness,
Let infinity smolder in a furious sunset.
Anger burns at how the mortal world goes out,
Let the wise men say that only peace of darkness is right.
And do not kindle a smoldering fire.
Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness,
Anger burns at how the mortal world goes out.
*
* read read
*
and here is the original
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Don't go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thought wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Don't go gentle into that good night.
*
pies: we are looking for the title of the film, where at the beginning of the film a man climbs up an ice crevice and reads a poem of several lines)

The agent, code-named "Winter Soldier", disappeared from time to time after missions. Usually he was found in the area of ​​the last mission, he did not go far, did not hide. However, several times the search dragged on for months. Geographical dispersion of targets for destruction, insufficient control during movement - the opportunity to leave, in fact, was always there, you just had to want to. But why run away to a man without a past? No need. Yet, this happened when the Soldier's repressed personality made itself felt. Something cannot be erased from the very depths of consciousness, even through cruel body modifications and brainwashing. Something stronger. Inexplicable, solid. It erupted from the depths and reminded of itself.

Once upon a time, thousands of years ago, arctic frosts tightly bound the seeds of the northern lupine flower. Having thawed, hitting the soil, they came to life, sprouted, and the greenery warmed by the warm spring sun was soon diluted with clusters of blue-blue inflorescences. Memories bit by bit returned to the Agent after the cryochamber. Outside of the cold, his mind most often simply did not have time to find the very soil for the memories to germinate and connect in a chain one after another. He was like a machine - devoid of empathy, strictly following the directive, not failing the task. Ruthless killer. Winter Soldier.

Seeds of memories remained deep in the Agent's subconscious. They sprouted in sudden flashes, infrequently, inconsistently, in small details. But more clearly they appeared in dreams. And the farther, the more threads were wound into a ball of memory. However, what doctors would call a miraculous escape from amnesia, an almost unbelievable event, this very miracle brought pain incomparable to the most cruel torture. The bitterness of losing something dear, the regret of a whole lost life. How to relive the loss of someone who was everything in the past, how to come to terms with the idea that there is nothing to return?

American in Italy

The sun was setting, turning the sky pinkish red and fiery orange, the clouds rimmed with gold and glowing from within. The sea was calm, the wind died down. Today he met the sunset on the veranda of a small cafe. His story was impeccable, he had not given himself away for four months now. Who could suspect a cold-blooded mercenary in an artist who came to live in northern Italy for an indefinite period for inspiration? Silence and unsociableness were not perceived with hostility by the locals, no one in this small town encroached on the hermit's personal space. Signor Brooks is a creative person, they have their own quirks. Curiosity bothered only a couple of weeks, then they did not pay too much attention to it. He lived in seclusion, but often came to a favorite place that tourists would definitely like if they stopped in this quiet corner by the sea more often.

Seeing him on the doorstep, the owner of the coffee shop was already preparing a serving of americano. The aroma of coffee wafted even outside, on a covered wooden porch entwined with vines of wild grapes. The order was repeated two or three times, depending on how much time the guest spent at his table. Usually he made some kind of pencil sketches, which he diligently hid from prying eyes. Only carried away by the process, frowning and whispering something unintelligible, he forgot himself, and seemed not to notice anything around, shuddering every time he heard steps nearby. Just like now. These steps were unfamiliar to him.

“Parli… parli inglese?” The sir from the bar said that you speak English - not a local person, and, judging by the accent, a native of the States. The man looked up from the album on the table, the tourist looked curiously at the stroke of the pencil lines.

- I'm talking. How can I help? – asked the guest.

Mr Brooks, right? My name is Thomas, my son and I travel by car. God, it's great that we got you! Nobody speaks English in this country! Mind if I swear? – the man nodded, the American sat down on a chair opposite. - We seem to have made a little mistake in the turns. Insidious mountain serpentine. Beautiful, I will not say anything, but still. We are going to Genoa, according to the estimated time, we should have already been there. Can you suggest how to get there?

- Of course. It's easy to go astray here, that's true. Do you have a map? - he did not smile, and the American was a little embarrassed that his friendliness did not affect the interlocutor. He was different from all the Italians he had met before with their overflowing emotions. Probably an immigrant. Or a traveler too. But what does he have to do with it? The tourist took a tattered brochure folded four times from his bag and handed it to the guest of the coffee shop. He pushed his album aside and unfolded the map with his right hand, for some reason not helping with his left, which would have been more convenient. But, without having time to inquire about the reason for the not very logical action, having examined the drawing better, the American recognized the one who was depicted on it, and this turned out to be more interesting.

"Wow, it's Captain America!"

- Who, excuse me? - the man immediately reached for the album, as if he did not make a sketch and saw it for the first time in his life.

- Well, here it is, a suit with a helmet, a star on the chest and a shield. Captain America. What, you don't know him? Every child here knows him. Hero of the nation! My father even saw him in forty-three. Just then he volunteered, he was sent here to Italy. He told how sad the news was for the soldiers that the guy had died. Too bad I didn't get to see the win. A legend, not a man... What's wrong with you? – the American caught himself, seeing how the man's face tensed up. He was puzzled as if this story was about dead hero was related to him. Which, of course, could not be true, because a minute ago he did not even know about the existence of Rogers.

- Died? - Mr. Brooks asked slowly and stared thoughtfully in front of him, looking somewhere through the tourist's right shoulder.

- Yes, he crashed on a plane, it seems that there is some kind of confusion with official version. I'm sorry to distract you with my tragic stories, I didn't mean to. Nothing?

"No, it's all right," Brooks smiled. Then he explained the road and drew the route with a pencil on the map. Thanking for the saved vacation and the time spent, the American said goodbye to him and the owner of the establishment and left. Ten minutes later he was already taxiing to desert road. The next day, Thomas no longer remembered what he was talking about with the man from the cafe.

The agent was not mistaken, worked clearly and left no traces. A deadly shadow, a ghost in the flesh, devoid of feelings and human emotions. During the operation in Yugoslavia, Agenta ceased to exist. The soldier took up position on the roof of a building opposite the city hall, took aim and was ready to open fire at any moment, as soon as a code word was heard in the receiver. This is how it looked from the outside. But something was going on in the sniper's head that prevented him from pulling the trigger a minute later, and after the fifth repetition of the order. Not a voice, something like a memory. He shot at the wall, coming to his senses. I missed it because I was confused. He considered. That is... This should not be. Then everything happened very quickly - instincts worked, the Agent moved along the roof, having planned an approximate retreat route and could have gone unnoticed if someone from the target's guard had not shot at him. The bullet pierced the metal just above the left elbow and scratched the side.

About a month after the escape began serious problems with hand. It's not just the pain at the junction of iron and flesh. It was always there, it was to be expected that without painkillers the sensations would intensify .. Pain is only the lesser of evils, if everything came down to physical sensations, there would be no reason for concern. Getting pills is easy. The mechanics were far worse. The agent left the laboratory before the scheduled replacement of parts, apparently, this will have to be regretted. The bullet went through and broke several contacts, which immediately disrupted motor skills. Sometimes the hand didn't work the way it should. Over time, he adapted himself and minimized the movements of his left hand. It was possible to correct something, but all the same, the hand became more and more like a senseless claw. In the third month, without an examination by specialists, things went very badly. Any attempt to use the hand required incredible efforts, and even the many times increased dosage of drugs could not save from the pain. It's just that if he drank too much of them, the body immediately removed the substances. No effect.

The left hand refused to move, it became more dangerous to appear in public. The agent liked to spend evenings in cafes where friends or family gathered for dinner, the warmth of their communication spread through the air and reminded him of something lost, similar to this communication. He looked closely, studied the locals, who were very few. The illusion of complete security bore fruit - he could sleep and remember more things from the past. For example, the fact that he once sincerely enjoyed the company. Just a couple of courteous phrases on duty, and the anxiety in my chest subsided for the whole evening. So he temporarily got rid of the scraping sensation in the depths, from the darkness that appeared in dreams and drove him crazy. Mr. Brooks was already used to the new name, though he wished he could remember his real name. Learned to ignore the Winter Soldier's instincts, learned to discern the lines of memory that came to him most often at night. He did not suffer from insomnia, during the day the painful condition was tiring, and only sleep could bring peace. True, not always. There were nights when he woke up from his own scream. From choking tears and something unbearably heavy, pressing on my chest and not letting me breathe. From the feeling of abandonment, from the fact that everything is unreal, and sometimes the border between reality and memories blurred into a formless substance without any emotions. Who is he? What kind of person? A mercenary from the collapsed Soviet Union, who has traveled a dangerous path, miraculously got out of the now troubled of Eastern Europe where countries are redrawing borders one by one? Mr Brooks? A hermit inspired by the beauties of northern Italy, who does not have a single landscape or even colors to convey a breathtaking atmosphere in a subtle play of colors? Who manages with a simple slate pencil, drawing portraits of a single person on all available paper? A soldier, one thing is known as being in the nineties of the twentieth century, having been transported here straight from the front of the Second World War? A boy with a training rifle over his shoulder, hitting the target ten shots out of ten and insanely proud of himself? The guy from the city with the most dangerous alleys in the world, because there wasn't one where he didn't have to save a sickly young man too weak to fight back the bad guys?

He already believed that he was crazy, because the memories contradicted each other, did not want to get together. He saw life different people. But he was also sure that all this happened to him alone. All this made my head spin. He tried to capture on paper everything he saw in his dreams, hoping that in time he would find the missing detail that would explain everything. And he didn't find her the way he expected.

Captain America. A hero in a wonderful costume. He definitely knew him. A random person shed light on main riddle in his life. The agent laid out on the wooden floor of his spacious room all the pages from the albums, all his drawings. How did he not notice before? Now, comparing everything at once, he saw an obvious similarity. The thin kid and Captain America looked at him with the same expression on his face, or rather, it changed, but it changed completely identically. Identical lips, smiles, sometimes cunning, sometimes sincerely joyful. The same eyes, sad or squinting, a determined look and sly winks. A blush that appeared on the sunken cheeks of an angular teenager and exactly the same on the face of an adult brave soldier. This is the same person. But why has he changed so much? What was the reason for this?

The agent was too tired of the darkness, of the unknown. She used to scare, now the purpose of his existence was to learn more. What if he can still find himself and his name? He was no longer afraid. Whatever it was, he'd already lived through it. And somehow, following Captain America didn't seem like a bad idea. He has probably done this before.

The owner of the coffee shop kept the sign with the reservation at a table in the corner of the veranda for a long time. Only now the guest did not appear either a day or a month later.

\

Ghost

Lab again. Blinding white light and sterility. People in overalls. Security. These are not from the Soviets, but the meaning is the same, the procedure has not fundamentally changed. Inspection. Anesthesia. Checking directives. An interrogation in which he keeps silent, hiding the fact that he knows everything. Knows who he is and how he turned out to be Zola's test subject. And what he did later. If they knew about his disappearance, they hunted him, they were waiting for him, then the Hydra must have had a spy. Bucky Barnes would have done just that. He would have done just that.

The hand had already been examined, from the conversation he understood that after replacement and testing he would be sent to a cryochamber. Only this time it would be better if he never woke up again. He backed himself into a corner himself, and they took advantage of it. But now he doesn't care. He understood the language, he reacted to trigger words, although he had not heard them for a long time. Maybe he really isn't James Barnes anymore, he died in forty-three, crashing into rocks. He did too many terrible things that Barnes would never have done. He was forced, he was reshaped into a machine for murder and violence. Neither blood nor memories can be washed away. The load is too heavy to continue the life of an ordinary person. It's his choice. If he forgets Steve again, he will forget himself. There will be no pain, there will be nothing, only instincts will remain. Perhaps consciousness will again slip memories into him, and he will begin to guess about something. Maybe he won't survive another reset or get rid of him later. What the hell is the difference. He is nothing more than a ghost.

Crossing borders with a faulty hand was harder than before. Clumsiness is absolutely useless to someone who is hiding and wants to be an invisible shadow. Avoiding big settlements, The agent reached Austria and was looking for American tourists, moving to more crowded places. He talked to people, and they told him slightly different variations of one story, recreating in detail what seemed to him the most plausible. One day, more luck than one could wish for - there was a historian who was resting after the conference, and knew a lot of details. Moreover, he turned out to have research materials on the phenomenon of Captain America. This is how the Agent learned about both Stephen Rogers and James Barnes. He was shown archival photographs. Barnes had his face. Is that a little younger and much more smiling. The agent smiled in order to win over the interlocutor. There was almost never any sincerity in this. Nobody talks to surly strangers. He also smiled in the morning if he saw Steve, if he managed to draw him cheerful, rejoicing at something. Memories didn't make the present easier. How ironic it is to learn so much about the past without being able to return it. He was again over the abyss, she stretched with a deadly embrace. He again saw the train with Steve Rogers rushing off into the distance.

Steve also died. It was foolish to admit the thought that he could survive. But even meeting him again as an old man was worth waiting for so many years in oblivion.

One day he noticed that he was being followed. I felt someone else's gaze, deliberately wandered through the old streets of a small Austrian town, and left for a neighboring one. The tail remained. They found him, it's all over. The only question is why they didn't grab it right away. Most likely, they assessed the danger.

However, this course of events was not surprising and was a kind of salvation. He had just lost his best friend again, even more than a friend, now he had brought together almost everything that had accumulated in his thoughts. He will not have to continue to exist with this knowledge, grief will not corrode him from the inside, he will forget everything again. James Barnes will die again.

It is impossible to know that he remembered.

When it got dark, the Agent was on the outskirts of the city, he managed to confuse his pursuers. Lighting matches with one hand is difficult, but the task is doable. He couldn't help but scrutinize each leaf from the bag before putting them one by one into a leaky iron barrel. He said goodbye to Steve, his eyes filled with tears, he did not hold back. At the same time, a smirk never left his lips. Men don't cry, the voice in his head belonged to Steve, he'd heard it so many times. Now it was a reproach and even a challenge. "Of course not. But did you cry when I died? What was it like for you?

Agent Barnes did not take his eyes off the charring paper. The graphite lines were the last to disappear, smoldering in reddish-blue flames. Each new leaf flared up brightly, flashed for a moment, engulfed in death agony, and showered gray ash at the bottom of a rusty barrel. Minutes, perhaps an eternity later, the smell of burnt paper was dispelled by a gust of wind, and smoke rose and dissipated from what had been a reflection of the past.

That's all. Steve is gone, he won't see him again.

The agent rose from his knees and staggered toward the center. He will soon be noticed, he was no longer hiding. He walked forward along the cobbled street, lit by the dim light of a lantern, no longer caring where his feet carried him.

When a sharp cold light blinded him, chained to a chair, he closed his eyelids and drew blue eyes and a smile in front of him. It's all right, James. You've already died before. The second time is not scary at all.

man on the bridge

Every time he woke up, for the first moments he feverishly wondered where he was. Every cell of his body was ready for possible pain, for an electrical discharge that could pierce him immediately or with the first hesitant movement. He is ready for the cold, which cramped his muscles. The agent analyzed external stimuli, but did not note anything extreme. Silence. He opened his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. The room is dark because the window is covered with an old dusty striped curtain. He rose from the creaking bed with skinned legs, breathing slowly, counting an equal number of seconds per inhalation and exhalation. He reached out and pulled back the curtain a little. Dawn was just beginning, the sky was covered with clouds, which brightened a little towards the east. The agent sat down on the dirty, cold floor, unzipped his black cloth backpack, and pulled out a notepad. checked last days. He remembered every word, every phrase. The uneven letters on the pages folded into words like a honeycomb in a beehive, gradually merging into uneven roundings and sharpening of the handwriting and occupying almost the entire space on a blank sheet.
The agent continued to leaf through the notebook, all the pages of which were streaked with blue ink, down to the one that he first filled out two days ago in Washington. Three words are painted on it at random, like on all other pages, with all sorts of handwriting variations. Like the recipes of a particularly crooked first-grader. Large letters alternated with small ones, in some places they were almost weightless, only contours and a light touch, but in some places the thick paper was torn, and the crumbling white-blue edges scattered around, imprinted with the pressure of fingers and palms to a smooth, clean surface.

"James Buchanan Barnes"

This name was listed next to a portrait of a man who was like two peas similar to the Agent. And the man on the bridge, the one who refused to fight, his name was Stephen Rogers. And that name, too, was firmly established in his head, filling the gaps between the fragments of memories that were probably associated with him. And one more thing - they were friends, the Agent saw footage of the chronicle, photographs, saw a man who looked like him and Steven Rogers laughed together, discussed something, friendly, without any distance, even saluting the sergeant in the photo grinned a little and the elder in rank, the captain with a large white star on his chest inclined his head approvingly, as if nodding, and did not hide his smile. The agent knew the story wasn't fake, but he couldn't remember, couldn't prove to himself that it was true. He wasn't James Barnes, at least not without a flashback.
But he didn't remember Stephen Rogers. I remembered something else. The first - very vague - the sky, black, strewn with countless points of stars, treetops, fog, silence and insane fear, from which I was shaking, from which goosebumps are now. He did not know how he ended up in the forest, did not remember how he got out of there, and how he returned to the appointed point, but he remembered the white light that hit his eyes, and the fear that shook his body when bracelets closed on his living and metal wrists, and unbearable pain pierced right through him. The agent was again ready for unquestioning execution of orders and instructions. Flash, long as whole life, eclipsed the glimpses, and only by some miracle he vaguely remembered one night and his feelings. Nothing else was imprinted in memory. In addition to that confusion, that feeling that he emerged from some bottomless pool, perhaps from the underworld itself.

The agent did not have dreams in the cryochamber, his consciousness was simply cut down and then he fell into blackness. Until the next task came, and he gradually began to distinguish the humming mixed noise, hear voices, and then see the vague outlines of people in white and soldiers with weapons in their hands behind them. He slept during long operations, the body needed to recover. But it was a brief, dreamless slumber. Almost always. Unless something unexpected happened. Like then, on the Helicarrier, a week ago. The man said the phrase, and the Agent failed the mission. There was no reason for that, the only thing left to do was to strike a final crushing blow, and the target would be eliminated. But this man looked at him, losing consciousness, offering no resistance, accepting his fate humbly, looking as if he knew him, and as if asking him to remember. As if he had to remember. And then something closed in his head, he did not hear the roar and gnash of metal, the roar of the aircraft carrier's burning engines, he heard the echo of those words and knew that he had once heard them. Or... were those his words, the Agent? Or, more specifically, James Barnes?

He pulled the man out and left him on the shore. He did not return to base. Hiding at a safe distance, cashing a backup check from a stash, risking being discovered. But the Hydra, after it had just been decapitated, had not yet had time to grow a head for a replacement, it was easy to neutralize the minimum guard. There was enough money for a used motorcycle, clothes, and there was still a supply to live on for a couple of months, including the rent.

However, the Agent did not stay in Washington. Barely recovered from the mission, a day later, he went to the Smithsonian Museum. He knew that he would find something important about Rogers there, his face was on all the fresh newspapers that were littered with street stalls. The agent studied several different ink-smelling samples and, more from the pictures than from the text, realized that it was worth visiting the aviation museum. The words were hard to read, and he could only make out a little of what was in the article. Some letter combinations seemed to be mixed in from other languages, the Agent frowned and looked intently at black and white photographs, smoothing out newspaper sheets that were ruffled and turned over by the wind. At the end of one of the articles there was an address, and the numbers are much easier to understand. He hailed a taxi and showed the driver the address as it was - on a torn piece of paper. He didn't say anything, just continued to hum the song that sounded from the radio. The language was unfamiliar to the agent, but he was glad that no questions were asked of him. He didn't know exactly how justified his action was. What he found on the spot made him change his mind.

Stephen Rogers was the name of the man in the suit. James Buchanan Barnes is the name of a person with his appearance. His name. He took a notepad out of his backpack, flipped to the first blank page, and wrote down both names. It took several minutes, not all letters wanted to be the same as on the stand. The agent got a printed folded booklet with the story of Captain America. There were entries in English, Spanish, and French, and if you look carefully, you should be able to make out something. The audio recording that accompanied the video mentioned that before the war and the tragic death of James Barnes, they lived in New York, in Brooklyn. The agent decided to go there. It is unlikely that everything was preserved there the same as it was in the thirties, but there was still hope for fishing for new memories in familiar places. Knowing the danger points on the map, the ones related to the Hydra, he could stay in the shadows, bypassing them. If that doesn't work, he'll disappear, maybe go to South America or New Zealand, but for some reason something squeezed the lungs with such thoughts. Something inside him convinced him that Plan B would not be needed.

It was already getting dark when the Agent, backpack over his shoulder, stepped into a parking lot on the northern outskirts of Washington, put on his motorcycle helmet, and headed out of town. He did not stop for a long time, only when the fuel gauge showed a cutoff, at which it was already time to look for the nearest gas station, and briefly turned off the deserted highway.

Before dawn, the Agent again deviated from the route to take a nap for a couple of hours. He felt tired, hungry, his eyes closed. For a while he struggled with drowsiness, then he saw red and blue neon letters, the sign of a roadside motel. After paying for the room and eating a hot hot dog, he collapsed helplessly on the bed and instantly fell asleep. Not for long, just a couple of hours. To wake up before dawn and check your notes, again to make sure that what happened is real.

In Brooklyn, he quickly found housing, in a well-worn better times house with peeling gray paint on the door. However, the location was perfect. The owner was not going to visit more than once a month for rent and did not ask questions. Neighbors, too, were not distinguished by unhealthy curiosity and did not knock on the thresholds in order to get to know each other. These people probably had their own secrets. Reliably, but at the same time, within walking distance, the Agent hid the weapons taken from the Hydra and studied the surroundings. The new shelter had no flaws, the uninhabited environment did not matter. He did not even think about what is comfortable and what is not. Food, sleep and safety, that's more than enough. The area is rather big and it will take time to get around everything. The agent understood this, but there were no other clues, and he wandered through the streets, wide and narrow, landscaped and dilapidated, looking around for something familiar. He sat for a long time on the bank of the river near the old bridge, here the sensations became clearer, he was almost sure that he had been here. Sometimes, passing by some eatery with a retro sign or an alley, he would freeze in place, as if rooted to the spot, and then it seemed that he remembered. Let some fragment, a separate sound, something inside respond to it.

The dreams he had were... contrasting. Often he woke up in a cold sweat from the fact that he became a killer without feelings and memory. He killed men, women, he was begged for mercy, but their words meant nothing more to him than a senseless breath of wind. Others were filled with inexplicable joy and lightness. But there were some special ones.

He walked along the alley, the dark canvas of the asphalt path was covered with fallen Maple leaves. Reddish-brown, green with yellowish spots, bright orange, very beautiful. Scuffing the toe of his boot on the ground, he lifted a couple of sheets into the air, which swirled like a miniature tornado and hurried back down, swirling and changing places. Having landed, they continued to move - the wind became a little stronger and carried them forward, traveling further through the autumn.

Admiring the play of warm October colors, he saw a shadow in front of him. Elongated, much longer than its owner.

The smile, carelessly tousled blond strands parted on the right side, stoop and sharp shoulders - all this seemed vaguely familiar, even native. He got closer and closer and saw more. Freckles and moles on the cheeks. Long eyelashes. Clear blue eyes, dark at the edges of the iris, as if outlined. Wrinkle on the left eyebrow. Who is he?

- Buck! Why are you taking so long? Let's go, hurry up! – the guy quickly moved forward. You need to follow him, but it just didn't work. The legs seemed to be rooted to the asphalt, not to move, the voice was gone. He stood there, speechless and paralyzed, anxiety surging like a tidal wave, slowly rising higher, flooding and turning into panic.

“Bucky, why are you standing there, let’s go!” - they called him, and most of all he wanted to return the ability to move, at least a little, at least say a word, ask him to return, wait. But he couldn't, he couldn't...

Suddenly the wind picked up and thick fog rolled in from all sides.

Buck, please! – a quiet request that echoed, became louder, and the contours of a familiar face blurred, disappeared behind a curtain of milky white haze, he mentally screamed, moved his lips, but not a single sound broke the dead silence that reigned around. Both the alley and the guy disappeared, only the fog and the oppressive feeling of impotence remained.

The agent woke up and, not realizing what he was doing, reached for the bedside table for a notebook and pencil. He opened a blank page at random and began hurriedly sketching the face of the man in the dream. He did not know why the lines lay on the surface so confidently and precisely, as if he could draw. This is hardly what hired assassins are trained to do. Absolutely, they don't teach.

However, he managed to reproduce the image very clearly, a mute request was reflected on the guy’s face, and it seemed that the drawing was about to come to life and make a request again. Yes, he would be glad to come, but where?

The dream was repeated. Summer passed, in October the trees got rid of their elegant variegated foliage. The agent continued to record memories on paper. There was no doubt that Steve Rogers, Captain America, and the fragile guy are one and the same person. The agent thought it would be worthwhile to go back and look for him in Washington. For some reason, every day the desire to see Rogers grew stronger. The agent caught himself calling the man by name in his mind. Just Steve. It seemed so natural and familiar. Only the name "James Buchanan" did not evoke such emotions. Another thing is Bucky. Yes, the name fit. He even turned around once in the street when he heard it.

When the first snow fell, the Agent continued to bypass the already familiar route. Early morning when the December sun had not yet risen and illuminated the dense curtain of clouds with white, he would come to the Brooklyn Bridge. For some reason, this particular place seemed to be the most important, here the heart skipped a beat and he was haunted by a feeling of nostalgia.

One morning the Agent saw a lone silhouette on his bench. He froze in surprise and, with an unsteady step, slowly moved towards the man. He sat in his blue jacket wide open, as if he was not cold at all, and calmly looked at the bridge and the river, and at the passing boats of various types. The agent realized that he had been found, and although for Rogers his appearance was also rather unexpected, it was likely that they were looking for him on purpose. The agent pulled off his backpack and took out one of the albums. He stretched out his hands forward, approached still, but did not dare to go further. He didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to say.

Luckily, Rogers, who had been following him with fascination ever since he came into view, got up from the bench and cautiously approached himself, taking the album in his hands. He wasn't afraid, or didn't show it. Rogers opened the album and froze. He saw himself. Turning the pages further, he seemed to refuse to believe what he saw, brought the album closer to his eyes, looked puzzled. Finally, he said in a barely audible voice:

“You know, Buck, I have memory problems. I thought that of the two of us, I was the artist.

The agent did not answer, because he himself did not believe in what was happening. Now he must wake up. It just didn't want to. Steve dispelled his doubts, took a step forward and hugged him so tightly that he would have crushed him if not for the serum and a return hug no less powerful. They stood for so long, hiding their faces from each other to cope with the welling tears. Having overcome this fit, Bucky said as casually as he could:

- I know a couple good ways strengthening memory. I can teach.

One day he will remember the fire and dozens of painted sheets that have turned to ashes. Wakes up from a nightmare, drenched in icy sweat, for the first moments sure that he is alone again and has lost him again. He will remember the thoughts that oblivion will bring freedom. And, finally, he will understand that Steve will never disappear from his life again and will always be there. Because he didn't go anywhere. He always reminded himself. And helped Bucky get back. Be yourself again. James Barnes now supplanted the Winter Soldier, who didn't fight back and kept his mind clear. Still, something not to forget, when people say that they start from scratch, they are disingenuous. Rebirth is not an easy process, but Bucky managed to come back from the darkness and start living again. This new world surprised him with his madness. But life, in all its palette of emotions and colors, struck me even more. He was not alone. Steve was always there.

By the way, about paints. Steve, shocked by the hidden talent of the artist, soon presented Bucky with a set of oil paints and assorted brushes. The first sketches came out, to put it mildly, no matter. Barnes claimed he last held a brush in his thirties, as a child. Then Steve came to the rescue and did the drawing for him, because Bucky wasted a dozen sheets. The paints refused to lay down according to his idea and dripped in heavy drops, blurring the picture. He freaked out and broke a couple of brushes in half, squeezing them too tightly in his palm. But now Steve was determined. When they had a free evening, they sat down at the table and for a couple of hours Bucky mastered the new technique under the strict guidance of Rogers. The last couple of works have already inspired hope - Steve nodded approvingly, proud of Barnes. The colors stayed in place and didn't mix at random. Still, on the bedside table, Bucky always had a sharpened pencil and sketchbook at the ready.

Masterfully avoiding Steve's ambiguous hints, Bucky hid a whole layer of memories from him for a while. He was embarrassed to talk about it. He drew this in secret when Rogers went somewhere on business. He hid it securely, although he knew that Steve would not violate personal space and climb where they were not asked. But a slight sense of shame fettered him, and he preferred to postpone a serious conversation until later.

The original plan was soon abandoned. Bucky didn't expect every day with Steve to be a real test of resilience and restraint. Long days spent in the company of a friend turned into weeks and months. When Barnes found himself thinking that he could not hide the direction of his greedy gaze even in public, he made up his mind. There was no more patience. Enough. He waited too long. Memories with Steve could be old dreams that he had no idea about. What if it's not like that? What if that's what Steve meant when he asked about some weird memory?

Taking advantage of Steve's short absence from their rented apartment, Bucky pulled out his sketches in an impromptu exhibition. Half an hour later, Steve returned and appraised the first few particularly revealing works right from the doorway, leaning against the wall and blushing crimson. Crumpled sheets, arched back, rounded buttocks and powerful thigh muscles. A pile of blond hair.

“Why…why didn’t you talk about it?” Rogers squeezed out, still as red as a boiled crayfish.

“God, is Captain America shy?” Bucky feigned indignation, raising his eyes to the ceiling in a dramatic way. Where does this modesty come from? From what I remember, it shouldn't be? - the effect is achieved, the target drilled the floor in astonishment. Excellent. It wasn't just Barnes who was uncomfortable.

“You know what I'll tell you, Steve? Stop wasting your time and blushing and take off your clothes.

- But I…

- Be a friend, undress quickly. I urgently need to practice drawing from life, - Bucky smiled slyly, tucking a stray strand behind his ear. - Need your help.

-
*Parli…parli inglese? (it.) - Do you speak English?

Notes:

The duration of the first part is the 1990s. The characters belong to the Marvel universe.
Written at the request of Zootexnik for the ReverseBang fest.
Arter - Zootexnik

The title is a translation of the first line of the poem "Don't go gentle into that good night" by Welsh poet Dylan Thomas.

I didn’t hear anything about the film (even strange), until I was advised to go to see it. The first time a trip to Korston ended in failure: having drunk some rolls, I decided that I wanted to sleep, not to the movies.

The next day, I still managed to get my husband to this film again. Good luck.

After watching, I heard remarks from our youth, such as: “not bad, but more or something else was expected”, “little action” and so on. Also from my adults, FB friends also heard negative feedback, this time on the topic: "little sense."

The movie just blew me away. It is believed that Nolan is a magician, and when I watch the film again, if I want to watch the film again, this admiration will disappear. I don’t know, I won’t tempt my perception, because I’m still under the impression.

What is so captivating?

Firstly, music. Oh, yes, now I have everything that I found in the playlist in VK.

Secondly, poetry. Poems by Dylan Thomas - something that almost enchanted and sounds in my head. This is a discovery, I did not know about such a poet. Although, after reading several articles, it turned out that he was a bully, a womanizer, a brawler, and a drunkard. But apparently, he had a relationship with the poetic muse, inversely proportional to human qualities, dependence.

Plot. For me, a big fan of American science fiction, it is not particularly new. Here and there, Simak, Bradbury, Asimov or Heinlein peep through. Although Nolan himself said that he was inspired by films.

In the near future, the Earth is on the verge of an ecological catastrophe: there are problems with food, only corn grows from cereals, dust storms are raging. In this regard, the armies were eliminated, high technology no one is engaged, and the most popular profession is a farmer. Cooper (Matthew McConaughey), a former NASA pilot, widower, longingly looks at the corn and raises children, a smart daughter (Makenzie Foy) and an ordinary son.

One day, following magical omens, he stumbles upon a secret NASA base, where an elderly professor (Michael Caine) reveals what they have been looking for for a long time for humanity. new planet and even sent a dozen scientists on reconnaissance. And now Cooper, along with a professor's daughter (Anne Hathaway), a couple of people and a robot must fly to another galaxy and find out what these scientists have discovered there.

And yet, for three hours, I never got bored, I looked at the screen without stopping. God only knows how much I love science fiction about space (yes, I am a child of the Union of the era of the beginning of the conquest of space), but the strongest thing in the film is not the scientific component. Although she is strong (despite all the “type of mistake”), because the consultant was Kip Thorne, an astrophysicist.

Film about human relations. About a very simple thing that each of us knows. And about which we constantly forget or turn away from it - the most beautiful thing on this planet that was created by the gods or evolution is LOVE. And not necessarily the love of a man and a woman ...

There will be no happy ending in the usual sense at the end. After all, even Einstein cannot return us to the past.

P.S. And, yes, this is not Tarkovsky's Solaris, it's still a block buster.

P.P.S. And yet, in the same Asimov, all human characters are utterly flat, and yet, his books are masterpieces.

Do not go humbly, into the twilight of eternal darkness,
Let infinity smolder in a furious sunset.
Anger burns at how the mortal world goes out,
Let the wise men say that only peace of darkness is right.
And do not kindle a smoldering fire.
Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness,
Anger burns at how the mortal world goes out

****
Do not go meekly into the darkness,
Be furious before the night of all nights,

Though the wise know - you can not master the darkness
In the darkness, you can’t light the rays with words -
Do not go meekly into the darkness,

Though the good sees: do not save him
The living green of my youth,
Don't let your light go out.

And you, who grabbed the sun on the fly,
Singing light, find out by the end of days,
That you will not go meekly into the darkness!

The stern sees: death is coming to him
Meteoritic glow of lights,
Don't let your light go out!

Father, from the heights of curses and sorrows
Bless with all your fury -
Do not go meekly into the darkness!
Don't let your light go out!

We present to your attention a protest against death, an incredible poem by the famous Welsh poet Thomas Dylan (October 27, 1914 - November 9, 1953) in a beautiful translation by Alexandra Berlina.

It is truly immortal. It is especially disturbing that the poet wrote this poem for his dying father...

Probably, if cryonics had already been invented and cryonics organizations had already been created, perhaps Thomas Dylan of his father ...

It seems that Thomas Dylan was a natural immortalist - a man who does not resign himself to the power of death. But he himself died shortly before Julian Huxley coined the word "transhumanism"...

Curiously, Dylan Thomas' drama The Doctor and the Devils was made into a film starring Timothy Dalton. The plot is based on true history about how a scientist bought fresh corpses for anatomical research, although he suspected that they were obtained by murder.

Do not go humbly into the dusk of death

Do not follow peacefully into the distance, where there is no light,

Let old age meet its end with anger.

Though the wise men know that darkness is the answer

To the light of all words, the sage does not follow

Resigned to where there is no light.

And the righteous who kept his vow

Bring goodness like a solar crown,

Evil cries when the light fades.

Savage, free man, poet,

A wonderful singer, a catcher of rays,

Will not wander where there is no light.

Seeing a swarm of comets before death

Through the blindness of all past years, blind man

Revolts when the light goes out.

You are not on a slope - at the top of years.

Meet death with wrath, I beg you, father.

Do not follow peacefully into the distance, where there is no light.

Rebel, rebel when the light fails.

There is another translation (by Vasily Betaki) of the same poem, which perhaps someone will like more:

Don't turn off when you leave...

Let old age flare up with the glow of sunset.

The sage says: the night is righteous rest,
Without becoming a winged lightning in life.
Do not go out, leaving in the darkness of the night.
A fool beaten by a storm wave
As in a quiet bay - I'm glad that I'm hidden in death ...
Stand up against the darkness that has crushed the light of the earth.
The scoundrel who wanted to hide the sun with a wall,
Whine when the night of reckoning comes.
Do not go out, leaving in the darkness of the night.
The blind man will see in his last moment:
After all, there were stars-rainbows once...
Stand up against the darkness that has crushed the light of the earth.
Father, you are in front of the black steepness.
From tears, everything in the world is salty and holy.
Do not go out, leaving in the darkness of the night.
Stand up against the darkness that has crushed the light of the earth.