My first tried to translate text with used vocabulary for only unknown words. I want to tell you my story. Like a lot of people, I have my private bunch of keys that had been collected during my life. I will not tell about all keys, I will tell about only two keys. I absolutely exactly knew from somewhere which door it can open - I opened that. There were pencils and paper. And also a lot of rhymed words hanged on the walls. And I began to write poetry. I wrote it when I was well, when I was worse, when I was bored. I wrote it again and again, it was like a demoniac. And what do you think - at one day strange man come to me and said: - Don't write poerty again, you do it disgusting. Better take this key. And another key had been added to bunch. This opened opposite door. It was a prose root. I began to write again, but only prose. And all reterned. I learned to write. I wrote. I read and tell strange stories, I aspired to uncertainty in my texts, and partly I got it. Sometimes I wrote that I did not understand, but it looked showily, on the other can not be said. Recently I understood that all stories wrote by me was blank. It so constructed that remind to reader about something intimate, about his experience, about life situation. It was a greate deception, but somehow it was often success. Now key which so recently was glittered in my hands - began dim. And I feel that each my new story about the same. It is alarming and pall... Original text here: http://skazkipritchi.ru/stories/2141