Grumbling of the old master of military arts.

  Grumbling of the old master of military arts. 
  I not against larceny. In larceny standard there is a regularity. Some petty-bourgeois constancy. The person enriches the house due to the faceless state. Me oppresses other:fear to be caught. I am am oppressed at all with that will catch me and then I shall lose a piece of bread. It can occur once. After me will dismiss. 
  But I am am oppressed with fear which I shall daily test. It will fill all my essence. My creative beginning will improve this larceny. It will watch others-as far as they do more effectively me. Eventually already now people steal more effectively me. I already was late. To me have remained only pity blood larceny. They speak, that I can be in time on a feast of larceny and susseed:be desire. I am afraid of it more, at me the desire to steal has run low. I am am oppressed with affinity of my death. To me not enough that life which needed to be lived. To me it is a pity in general to a life, allocated to one person. 
  To me the mankind would be desirable to be imposed to this organism under the name. It would be desirable to be its genetic illness. Its prejudice, defect, more likely not У«¬«ј-from defect quickly recover. It is necessary to be its illness like a bad habit but which would be justified, say, by national character. Let the mankind will not want to recover from me. I and itself am similar to illness. Corpulent and grown fat, wishing to cause pleasant impressions, and causing badly hidden irritation and the disgust, having desire constantly to keep a tight rein and burned down by desire to break on all successively. My joints have rebelled. They hurt and do me still pity to general delight. 
  Once I was sports and was able to fall down the person with one blow. I feed with this fairy-tale associates. Though for a long time already I can strike the person, being afraid to lose work, more likely. I for a long time already doubt of force of the impact, it is not checked up not so the whole century. The desire to strengthen the bones causes revolt of an organism. Joints hurt, and I become pity. 
  Old decrepit masters, probably, grew wiser to this age. Having lost the potentialities, they created religion to military art somehow to assure themselves and associates of a constancy of the skill. And in fact the essence of any military art in its historical birth, then is not enough from it remains. Only in its birth people, it appears, could pay the lives for test of characteristics of fighting art. I do not trust in philosophy of arts. I think young it is necessary to beat sometimes old-man to shake from them arrogance which was found by those for all life. To return all to primitive chaos. Let all will be fair, as want young. In fact force старцев in their skill to behave. They know the nature of things in art. But told it is simple and at young causes disappointment. 
  They should keep away from young in prospect and thickness of the years to loom somewhere in the distance. In fact these old-man have never killed the person. In this final phase of the art they познали that the spent efforts in strictly certain direction can give any result. So did ancient, we can change nothing. 
  But ancient were young, they paid for it a life. We, old-man, for it paid in nothing. We, old-man, have balm which we can pour undersized, weak-willed young. Also we are amazing at mighty young. They are surprised, when suddenly learn, that arts hunt for them. It causes self-esteem or fear in them. At us, старцев, these mighty young cause only desire to send them somewhere under automatic bullets where their force changes the order of things a little. For art they remain only a target, to kill which it is considered top of art. But who now kills. To whom hunting to starve. At us, old-man, sick bones, we never cannot destroy stones any more and rip up stomaches. The desire to revive old customs causes pains in joints, from which we huddle up. To create new philosophy? But that then becomes with art to which we have stuck a body. It will collapse on seams. So we, old-man, shall sit and look the clarified eyes. To erase pus with running an eye. And to recollect an antiquity. When, young, with ease killed and were not afraid to do it in the name of art. By the way, not the love to art, and, more likely, struggle for independence here disappeared. The dirty ugly political term. I do not want it. I-old-man, from me should exhale light, instead of this dirt. Fighting art is afraid of the beginning further the beginning of this art. Further there should be a sacred fog, primitive chaos. Absence of any life on the ground. Such proto earth. But here there were the people, able to kill naked hands. For this purpose there were people who can be killed. They send from nonexistence. Before they were an assemblage of the shadows, wishing to be materialized to be killed being people. Their desire to live has arisen simultaneously with need to die.