And it too time, and it too possesses taste and has no sequence. While it is chaotic, but on its body currents already run, belly
muscles of my personal python here and there start to strain, under a shelled yellow skin with the faded correct ornament
movement a hint on it, the confused knots shake arises if not, their some parts considerably increase in sizes, others on the
contrary fall down, there are moved apart rings, blackness of holes in them which have been not filled neither memory, nor most
Installed increases, holes grow, letting out from genetic memory the Big Bang, the Uniform field, Logos, a birth of thermal death,
the cracks of a universe weaved, as the most thin threads, dead decaying foam of shaggy galaxies, a mould of the stars
devouring the Order and increasing Entropy, stinking fogs and fogs, splashes broken off from a gluttony Supernew, an agony of
pulsars and streams bloody dzhetov, kannibalizm the stars greedy absorbing weakest, and a painful eructation in the form of
planets and a dust, Perishing in the boiling cancer tumour of the Universe instantly infecting a stench and a stench of the burst
corpse under a strange name of Singuljarnost.