Discrete Person. Геннадий Логинов

Discrete Person

      Gennadiy Loginov

      The fact that I myself, at the moment of painting, do not understand my own pictures, does not mean that these pictures have no meaning; on the contrary, their meaning is so profound, complex, coherent, and involuntary that it escapes the most simple analysis of logical intuition.

Salvador Dali

      Translator Mariia Eroshkina

      Editor Jen Duncan

      © Gennadiy Loginov, 2018

      © Mariia Eroshkina, translation, 2018

      ISBN 978-5-4493-7062-4

      Created with Ridero smart publishing system

      For the umpteenth time in the long history of forensics, a police inspector had to investigate his own killing. Moreover, the matter was further complicated by the fact that the inspector, no matter how hard he tried, could not recall for sure not only the circumstances of this undoubtedly tragic event but even how he’d found himself in this place, where he was going and what goals he pursued.

      Lighting a ghostly cigarette, squeezed between two phantom fingers, he watched with some elusive longing as non-existent smoke dissolves under the pressure of imaginary air. Having examined the prostrate body once again, he quietly shook his head and stated again: there was no doubt – it was him. Inspector Time. Or Inspector Space Time, if the full name is needed. One of the infinite multitudes of personified manifestations of himself, existing in parallel dimensions everywhere within the world of matter.

      And if Eternity is a category of being, then Time is a category of motion: if we assume that Time has an end, then Time has a beginning, and Eternity is holistic.

      Someone killed Time once again, and now – a killer had to be found and punished. The inspector had to be hot on the trail left by the body. But the trail was going cold quite quickly, hence, the situation should brook no further delay.

      Passing through a dilapidated house with its cracked floorboards and shabby wallpaper, where a storm raged in a rusty bathroom, and the star bulbs flickered unevenly, producing little light, the inspector went out onto an endless street, along the entire length of which stretched the seat of an endless bench. From the sky, the huge white mass of something fell, forming impassable drifts, and delving a little deeper, the inspector realized that it was – crumpled and thrown sheets of verses. Snatching at them in search of the coveted hot trail, the inspector lost track entirely and did not even notice when he turned off of the endless road into a labyrinth of gray matter.