Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Svyatoslav Loginov

on the fortieth? And if this really is the afterlife, where is everybody else? I mean, which way am I supposed to go?” – he bounced the purse in his hand. – “And who collects the entry fees?” There was no answer. With a sigh, Ilya Ilych pulled his leg from the infirm substance and took his first step. His foot was immediately swallowed up to his ankle, like in soft off-road mud after rain. “Best not drown…” thought Ilya Ilych impetuously, having never in his life seen a serious swamp and only a vague idea of what this entailed. He imagined sinking slowly into the imperceptible nothingness that surrounded him, and shuddered uncontrollably. What nonsense! Perhaps he still isn’t completely dead and this is just another pre-death syndrome, just an impossibly realistic and cruel one? Does every dying man experience this? People drown in a colorless and lightless jelly, each still holding on to their own last hope: the doctors practicing their magics at their bedside or a kindly deity that will pull them from this purgatory. In any case, this place does not much resemble hell… not the hell that pious old ladies try to scare one with, anyway. One step and then another… just like an hour before his death, only nothing hurts. Suppose even being a dead man has its advantages. That which was down below did not stick to his feet and

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