Do not abuse idiots. They like to build. They like being constructed, either. Certainly there are some that demolish; however, they do it somehow unemotionally, neither putting heart and soul nor rejoicing spirit. Mainly according to some administrative orders. The real constructor is full of unlimited passion; he would have burst off his stitches if definitely there ever existed a cutting template or a dressmaker's dummy for sewing an idiot. Because of the absolute absence of such a model or criteria - respectively - the final act of sewing, these passionate feelings inflate one figuratively presented elastic bag which happens more likely to be not even a bag for the lack of entrance through which some content to be added, or correspondingly - taken off. The content, inevitably comprised of constructive materials, fidgets and budges amidst the mentioned elasticity with not a sign of mere control, protruding and modeling on the surface most unexpected forms.
To the more fragile and non-elastic people these forms cause jitters, for the total vagueness about the identity of the bulging inside-out objects, unavoidably followed by density of fantastic suggestions. The most stubborn representatives of mankind try to accept those facts calmly, loading onto themselves overweight and stress.
The idiots' world is fairy. Just but on a street cross they have raised Rapunzel's tower, cylindrical and supplied with a single loophole, somehow glued onto the sharp corner of a panel block of flats. On the next roof is the timber Karlson's shack under which mournfully remain The Agush Town Hall resting premises hanging in the air. There is nothing beneath the premises except atmospheric occurrences, but in return to it a huge metal pipe with incalculable diameter protrudes from the ground. The walls of the pipe are sealed with asphalt and rumors loiter around it. On the black asphalt someone has drawn a pale graffiti of a semi-manufactured ready-to-cook article, an ascending broiler in nightgown and a shroud.
On the opposite side stands the building of the free masonry. The expansion of the lodge has led to a vast increase of the number of floors and inhabited flats in height and width. And so, instead of losing its top storeys in the high heavens, somewhat sky-scraping, or at least growing thinner, it's just the opposite - the top enlarges, and the area of its flat roof is six times and a quarter bigger than the basement's one. Those inhabitants of the crossroad, who are used to the anomaly, mechanically link the rumors about the pipe with this particular basement. The being not used to it passers by, especially the ones in motor vehicles, in accordance with their healthy mind, accept the building initially in the pragmatic and primitive way - namely, that they are closer to the roof than to the tichy dimensions of the ground floor. The pro-created sensation of flying makes them step on increasing speed and at the end of the crossroad - stop before the cemented to the sidewalk police car and handle to the officer a bluish banknote in deep relief. After the execution of this procedure, the unpleasant thrill in the pit of the stomach disappears; the aviators continue their route uneventfully committing cross-like signs, as well as other signs of protection with their arms, and thus creating a real risky traffic situation.
Upraising to some significant heights is hindered by a metal construction, which in starting fever remains in the air across and over the transport artery. Whether that is a trestle or some underpass destined for pedestrians - it is unknown. The hind side mounts sky-highly with its one hundred and sixty three steps, and then extends over the road its iron spine, and at the end of the spine two massive concrete arms lean upon the special status sidewalk. Steps do not exist on that side. Trestle's belly is corroded with rust; it’s only torn rubber pieces of bungie jump pipes that are hanging down.
The covering tiles of the special status sidewalk have been dug out and dispatched somewhere. Every morning its freshly stripped plot is being covered with fertile soil. That soil is being carried out of the entrance of the block in plastic sacks by the dissident of the lodge - Number hundred eleven. Number hundred eleven gets out some remains of building activities as well, and while this positive person creates virgin land onto the sidewalk, on the other hand he ensures stability of the giant pass-way's extremities.
The fishmonger's store of the Saints of the Last day has been built solidly; of sawed and chiseled stone blocks and a blacksmith has masterpieced nice metal bars on the window frames. Non-idiots built the fishmonger's store in the eighteenth century and according to town regulation plan is about to be demolished. The deconstruction will surely prolong till Judgement Day because the temple of the Mormons is accommodating it.
The business center MAMZA would have formed the third corner of the crossroad, if it hadn't suffered by a single obtuse angle, which does not come out of the building but is a kind of hewn into it. As a whole it looks like a luxurious bar of cheese, packed in aluminum folio according to the various standards. From the bar, however, has been cut a huge piece by the confectionery "Aniko" and the self-employed merchant "Polar bear". The plot of land does not stay on its regulation place, but only fidgets around here and there, towing with itself the shops of the self-employed. The white bear fortificates itself in the very beary way, and despite being a panel one, replaces slowly, and with emphasized unwillingness. All this replacement is inevitably connected with police, numerous porters of the labour engaged occupation and nervous personage of officials and pretendents, all armed with paper arguments and arguments of another kind, and limos in metallic colours. To compensate, the confectionery is light-heeled. It is built on a single hen's leg, with which it is jumping briskly and easily around the slipcase of the children's playground. The slide is overgrown with high weed and takes the function of sexual sanctuary.
The mamza makes wage war against these occurrences through palm trees planted in wooden tuns, originating movable subtropical forest. In the forest there lives a monkey, a former belonging of an individual of the gypsy minority. In the end of this improvized forest, onto an enormous hybrid dried tree, which is community's property, someone has built a dwelling place. This someone feeds the monkey.
This crossroad exists in every city, and it is inevitably named "The five corners", and nowhere the corners are five except, perhaps, from time to time. The major reason for this is the presence of a building, which is eternally being constructed, re-constructed, repaired and modified. It differentiates in width and height, alters its shape and face and has no definite purpose or predestination. The structure conceals under a greenish building yashmak some ebullient constructive and destructive vehemence. One can trace its epicrisis only through the periodically changing inscriptions before the presumable entrance. But despite all the convulsions under the veil the edifice is enjoying an enviable health and vigorous life. Its amorphousness makes it look like a huge wax candle destined to stick up but for a long time having been puddled, and after the mauling having gained unspecified form. Notwithstanding the variety of forms the candle hides a wick within, which wick permanently flickers at the end. The end that the candle has been lit by appears to be an occurrence out of knowledge.
Even the first sun beam gropes with non-scientific succession the structures on the cross-road, starting with its oldest part and ending in a quick transition over the newly swelled turgidity of the eternal construction site. In the mouth of the pipe the sunbeam does not dare to peep.
And since the sun neglects laws of nature and does not will to throw light upon the matter, it is quite uneasy for a human, even with a fair approach to accuracy, on which floor precisely and towards what world's bearings was situated the office of Z.M.E.Y. - short from ZONES & MACROSTRUCTURES - EXPORT & YMPORT.
