He was alone, alone like a moon. Like a path in the park at night, his thoughts were outlining unrecognizable shapes of the bitterest despair and darkest sadness. With all his inner desires, forces, that were left after all the struggle, he didn’t want to believe in that. He didn’t want to admit that because that would’ve have changed the name of his life to “nothingness” or decorate everything he did with a bright yellow word “worthless” in every sentence of his life. No, God, no… all the same, denying the truth didn’t help either. The truth that was so bright and obvious for everybody, except for him for so many years. He started feeling that something very obnoxious, mind-vomiting was crawling in his withering spirit, something that nobody would’ve been able to say out loud, or make fun of at that point.

May be I missed something…
Sitting lonely by the fireplace, in the rocking chair, just like the one he always wanted to have since childhood, and to sit just like that with such a serious face… thinking really widely and broadly about own… like Sherlock or Epicur… and with a glass of Merlot..
In the whole house just crackling of the fire and hissing of the conditioner… May be I missed something.. Said he, but now out loud to himself…
Something started vibrating, flashing with an idle melody through the dark silence of the house…
- Да.. answered he, in hope that it is some of the “close” people that remembered him in the New Years Eve..
- Hola! Puedo hablar a Sr. Miguel. Esta en el casa ahora?
- -Discúlpeme, está equivocado el número, señiorita…
- -Lo siento…

And she hang up the phone… wrong number… She needed somebody called Miguel…

hmm.. I should’ve said that I was Miguel. Then, shoud've reserved the table in a restaurant and asked her out… And when she woudn’t meet Miguel there, just before she starts leaving, accost her and tell:

-Hola, Senioritta. Me llamo Roberto. Esta muy bonita y estoy solo esta noche. Quiere beber algo comigo?
You don’t have to wonder that people treat a woman with such beauty like that. You’re not first, you’re not the last…
And she responded:
-Gracias y Mucho gusto Roberto. Me encantaria…
And then with projectors and street lights through bars and clubs until the dawn… and then it’s not lonely and very hot in your bed… and in the morning, a little bit ill and tired you ask her:
-Como te llamas?
-Maria…
That would be the last word you would hear from her.. and she gets dressed and gone, gone…
You’re lonely again.. inside just the fantasies and at front of you their reflections on the burning down fire…

She is waiting there by herself. A woman, in a light colorful dress, that contrasts her gentle shoulders and sensible neck. It's raining. You see how the rain drops falling down from the sky are touching her and burst with exhiliration. They cover all her body, pure and shining like a heaven itself. She is standing there alone in the crowd.
Cars, buses are passing by, but she is waiting for something or... somebody. A deep uncertain regret starts permeating your mind, something that you are not, yet, able to understand yourslef but what causes pain. May be that's the sorrow of realizing
that she doesn't know you or... the thought that you would never be able to kiss her shoulder, and you don't want more. Even kissing her, you would have done it so gently and carefully, so that you would not have destroyed the harmony of her endless beauty... beauty of the lake, reflecting the sky and rising sun, that leaves you dazzled if you look on it. That kind of beauty you would not dare to touch, but just let it shine through you. A beauty that tells you the reason of life, and tranquilizes your soul. You wish your life was as ideal as the traits of her face, eyes, lips... You wish you were a wind that touches her so elegantly, without a word or any wrong movement, leaving itself in every and each cell of her body, disappearing in her sweet scent... You wish... And when you open your eyes you see her sitting in somebody's car... and the car is going away... you're sitting alone waiting for the bus...

An aroma of a woman… so sweet and gentle, somewhere close. The emptiness of the whole house rapturously realized that she is coming... on her tiny, always cold and white like snow toes, through the silence of the corridor like a peaceful morning cloud. Just as soon as the vibes of exuberance stormed into his room he felt that too. And that melody in the air… coconut mixed with the natural odor of her hairs that makes you feel at home every time you breathe it in… That must be how angels are supposed to smell… She is at home. Finally, at home. The whole universe came back on its place.

The city around was on the pause. In the childish play of the coming storm the wind caught up the end of his tie and showed up its presence to the empty sidewalk. The mirror skyscrapers, with all their rudeness and immense cold bravery, were not scared by the weather. The man wasn't afraid of it either. Even the fact that the costume will be spoiled by rain drops didn’t make him run and hide. “Run and hide” he thought “is not for the samurai”. Anyway, he is too tired to be scared of anything.
Under many layers of business ethics, professionalism that he was taught in the graduate school, and million of cups of dark coffee you wouldn’t be able to find any sign of exhaust on his face. Watching people running back and forth along the streets, he couldn’t see them. His head was full of vespine buzz from the running numbers on the bright screen, income voice mails in the cell phone, people’s faces from the meeting all over the world, some of them angry… and much less happy… More, he didn’t know anymore what happiness was… A good substitute for this word was “profit”… That was all he needed for the last couple of years.
Rain. He remembered that he liked the rain, but he never knew why. What can represent the rain? Life? Or probably us? “One rain drop starts in the cold little spring, makes his way to the ocean, reaches the skies and with tremendous velocity falls back on the ground. Some of the rain drops end up in the puddles, among the streets, traffic, but it really doesn’t have any significance where you’ve been, you will return to the skies and then will fall again on the ground.” Such thoughts were vaguely, going in his background mind, it made him open his mouth and stare in the skies. They were dark, fast and bold “Storm. It’s going to be a storm.” He said to himself. “I need to go. … go where? Go home? What is there that will be happy to see me? A new TV set? Or the computer that is going to take me back to my job. Empty kitchen with an empty fridge? Windows looking on the same street? Why should I go home?
“I feel like chaos” he said to himself. That the feeling when you repeatedly think about doing something, for a long time, but never manage to get it done because you start thinking about something else, that seems to be better, and you still think about what you didn’t do, and about new thing, and even things that keep coming up in your mind more eagerly and with stronger desire to be done, and the more and longer you have all these things in your mind the worse this crave for the realization becomes and, eventually, you can’t do any of these things because you’re exhausted just because of thinking about them, however, they are still with you. It all accumulated in a milky way that goes circles around the only alive and shining part of your mind, which always tries to look on the positive side of the life, sort of the sun, which would prefer to be the moon and lose its gravitational energy for this brutal world of the things-desired-to-be-done.
Just in the middle of such reflections a taxi car stopped by. A driver, tanned skin, beard, and a blatant smile with own story, shout out: “Need a ride, sir?”
Just after he sat in the back seat of the taxi, first rain drop has fallen on the windshield, slowly sliding down, leaving a water track after itself. That was the last barrier for the coming flood of tears. He wept like a child and didn’t want to stop.
Taxi driver killed the engine.
Skies tired of holding all of the water, that made them look so dark and vicious, started the dance of crystals, covering the city, soothing every soul in a way that only story-holders know.

Twilight mixed with the odor of frivolous women, hot cars, coffee and cigarettes. What kind of truth can you find on its streets? The one that is warm and will go down your throat like a flame, and will make you passionately love this filthy place, or may be the one that will talk to your money not asking you name. She will get on your chest; will give you love and tenderness, for a certain amount, for definite time. Leaving you satisfied but empty; lying on the bed of a cheap hotel, staring at the dark morning ceiling and one single statement in your head “THAT was my last time…” But the other weekends come, and the same statement reinstates itself.
Everybody here accepts chaos at this time of the day. Movement chaotically is the only way to stumble over the truth in this city. You can’t find what you want, if you know what you want. People are tired to want something determined; they need infinity of choices, abyss of multitude. Disappearing in the holes, doors, windows, with a deep inhale and laughter, with melodies of jazzy evening, or funeral silence, that rests somewhere deeper… Where you can hear only echoes, where you don’t need anything but sincere being, devout love and natural affection. Natural to the bone, to its basis, all and forever and only for you, even when you are sober. The improbability of that makes you angry. It makes you mad. It makes you take a taxi and rush somewhere it probably hides itself. Since you don’t know where you accept chaos as a way to find it. Now you are in this multidimensional sporadic mist of somebody’s desires concentrated within the borders of one lonely, dark and unpredictable city.

If you had to describe the night time through the senses, what would you say?...

Night. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. A cigarette with a shadow of lipstick still highlights a little spot in the empty room. An act of passionate synergy just happened here, just now.
A woman is lying next to a man. The man starts slipping into the vague slumber. He did his part, and started dreaming about his first love, then the second, and afterwards just about another woman who was not a “******” but a “Madame Bovary”... not a fire but an atomic bomb.
She is naked from the waist down. Even darkness of this room seems to like her smooth, young and perfect legs. Her skin is painted into the twilight colors and occasionally gleaming lights of passing by cars, the only intruders here. Eyes closed, lips shut, a silent mask on her face says that is somewhere else now, as well. She has a slight breeze of dissatisfaction, melted by sweet atmosphere of the good wine. “But the *** was not as good as the wine; today’s *** was rather like a Siberian *****. **** butcher…” she thought.
She smiled, as a note once dedicated to her by a guy, whose name she forgot, came up in her sleepy mind:

“It is totally impossible to describe. Furthermore, describing you is an offensive act that sets boundaries to your unlimited perfection. I gaze at you as though you are my best and the one perfect equilibrium for any moment of my tiny life. You could have been my best decision and “perpetuum mobile” for the whole life, where is no sorrow and solitude, but ideality. As sun flares, your true beauty starts and ends in you. I am lost in your magnetic fields. From the moment I saw you, my existence disappeared. In the places where you appear, everything loses its meaning, each string is exhilarated to build a special and an ideal reality around you and for you. And I am a part of this new universal heaven where there is no need to breath or think, but only to see you dancing…”

On the last hissing sound the cigarette burnt out. Good boys win.

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.