Here on the roof of one million stairs building nothing is scary but the life itself. Nothing inspires more than looking down, on the gleaming arteries of the big, penetrated by the dense matter of the cosmos, city. The stars are different here, even if some of them are hot on the surface, inside they are endlessly cold, not that big, and a lot of them already drunk.
But the city lives in its dangerous pictures of infinite and bright life. Flame and fire of global roll call of the people in the windows, sets the rhythm. They flash slower and more silent and eventually start sleeping, not all of them in the beds, some of them on the roads, in the restrooms, sitting on toilets, waiting for the bus or a barmen, who doesn’t want to fill this glass up again… why… wouldn’t he… just go home and sleep and forget and start tomorrow again, like everybody, like friends and even enemies, just to start… Start what? He forgot. He is sleeping while security man is dragging him towards the back door.
A blond woman looks at that such picture pouring into the ear of her lover some kind of laughter. It can’t be her husband. Women never laugh like that with their husbands. That kind of laugh that says “I’m the happiest woman because of intense and frequent *******” is dedicated only for the lovers.
In the evening, especially at night, there are no boundaries for having ***. There is no place where it is inappropriate. How could it be inappropriate if nothing else is left? There are *** and the street lights only.
During the day they earn money, and at night they hunt for a good *** in the club. Sometimes it does not matter who. As those sorority girls that came in the club. An assortment of sparkling champagne, chocolate with ***** and cognac goes all inside of them to put out this thirst for the perfect ***. Somehow it helps us to touch the tail of perfection, the more alcohol you pour in, the better seem to be the circumstances for having ***. A filthy restroom or soaked with ***** street, everything is madly romantic under these dancing stars.
A guy is making out with a girl. The fumes of beer, wine and tequila kills the desire to kiss her, but he already started and can't stop because this schoolgirl will not understand. He has to kiss her to get what he want. She is a novice here, still starts with kisses...
An ex gay protestant priest, with such an angry and at the same time exhilarated smile, is hiding behind the corner to shout out “Repent!” at those who coming out or going in the club. He likes putting to shame some innocent girls who hesitated to come here. He likes to scare people, to make them angry, it gives the feeling that you do have power from god, and it even makes him feel like a god. All his life he dedicates to the approval for his way of living, for his sacrifices and social deprivation, so when he sees a drunken man lying on the street he is not compassionate, but happy. Happy to see that he was right, they were wrong and that Jesus did save him. But all he needs is love, the love that someone rejected to give him once, the one who could not understand him and it was not Jesus, it was his Dad who tortured his heart and never paid attention to him.
After the security chucked out the drunken man they noticed a scared from his own power priest and stepped towards him. He didn’t want to get beaten up again and ran away with fading “You all gonna burn in Hell…”
The club can breathe with new strength, all the weak and collapsed are already outside, and the blond woman is already touching a personal tail of perfection on her knees in the restroom.

She lit a cigarette. It made a whispering inhale and exhaled a thin white thread of smoke. The woman smoked, despite that she never really liked neither the scent that stayed on her skin and clothes, nor the effect of nicotine, which was lost after a couple of packs. One day she started smoking to manifest her freedom, today she is smoking to entertain herself. It is entertaining for her to exhale white clouds out of lips and try to recognize a moments of innocent happiness in them. Each moment spent with a cigarette reminded about all other moments, which were earlier, younger...
She inhaled again and in the exhale smiled. The white mist coming out of her red lips looked magically. But it was not the cigarettes; it was her special elite beauty that made the bench she was sitting on so attractive… expensive.
Today she was in black. Luxurious half dark stockings with a black line, shining spike heels, a strict skirt and a costume, which accurately underlined her breast, in a way that gives to any passing by man an insuperable longing to undo one more button, just one more button…
If I said that her face was beautilful, that would mean nothing. The beauity of her face could be equal only to the sensation of a hot chocolate on a tip of your tongue.
Smooth, white skin, without any face’ powder. Skin that would make you touch it, and slide through it with your cheek, to find out if it is real, or to feel how real it is… Just that would be a best psychotherapy that nobody ever offered you.
What does she want?  What she doesn’t need, it’s an attention… She is hungry for something sincere that rises right from depth of the soul, nurtured by warmth of the heart, delivered by the means of good thoughts and sensible words that would nurture and cure her heart… But all she has it is smoke of the cigarette. What an unfair trade…
She smiled again. What is she thinking about? May be about the age when she was a little girl and promised her mom to be a good girl. Or about a little boy who was the first to say that loves her... and the last man who meant it... or meant it in the way she needs it now. She remembered how she used to sleep cuddling with her dad, a man of the strong cologne, big hands and passionate embrace. Oh, how she wanted just to sleep next to somebody like her dad… Strong, warm, silent, sincere…
She is not smiling… Please don’t cry. Don’t cry. Client is coming…
-Hello, How are you?
-I’m perfect today! What about you?
-Apartments are there, how much is one hour?...

Two years ago I had a bad insomnia. As I remember, not sleeping enough led me to apathy and depression. Indeed, it was miserable time; I was lost in time and space, browsing through clubs and restaurants, looking for my medicine. But what I discovered was more than a cure from my insomnia; it was a life enriching experience that still brings beauty into my life.
It happened on one of those misty autumn nights. As I sat at the table, the DJ announced the name of a young performer. “This night will be just like all the other sleepless, long, and boring nights,” I thought, as she appeared in front of the audience. Seventeen or nineteen years old, dark blond, in a long black dress, a scared out of her wits conservatory student.
As I started looking impatiently for a waiter, she sat down at the piano and...
In the whole world clocks stopped. It was as if a colorful butterfly, following the shiny cold creek, flew into my soul, bringing the fresh breeze on its tiny wings. At her gentle touch of the keyboard, I got to see how beautiful she was. From the music she played, her face started pouring out light, and her pale skin glowed like the surface of the moon. Her music gushed into my veins infusing me with life. For a moment I thought, "She must be a goddess." The harmony of her music gave her confidence. She talked artfully to the black and white keys persuading them with striking chords. It reminded me of my childhood: easy, curious, satisfied and simple.
After she finished, she bowed down in front of everybody. Before disappearing behind the curtains, she looked at me and smiled for a short while, as though she knew me.
That night I came home and slept all night and all day.
I wanted to listen to her again, but I could not find that pianist anywhere; I did not even know her name.
After a while, insomnia came back.
Either in attempts to revive feelings of that night or just mere sleepless insanity, I had attended piano classes over one month, every evening. Considering that I was twenty one years old, it was not easy, but it was worth it.
Now remembering that one night when I saw the playing goddess, I understand what I needed. It was not a good restaurant, expensive meals, and drinks, but real beauty. Not the one that is on the surface of magazines, where everybody sees it, but the one that stems from the depth of the being itself, expressed in the art and love, that is able to go inside me and make me feel alive again.
Since that sleepless autumn, every time I practice my piano, the magic butterfly comes back, and when I go to bed, I sleep as sweet as a child.