Страна : Голландия
Кирилл Сазонов. Мне 26 лет, родился в маленькой , дождливой Голландии в русско- говорящей семье. Трижды поступал в высшие учебные заведения – интернациональный бизнеc и экономика ,международные отношения и программирование, – и также регулярно бросал учебу. Основал фирму – виртуальная платформа криптовалюты. Разрабатываю свою видео-игру, пишу прозу стихи и музыку. Короче, еще молодой, предприимчивый человек без официальногo подтверждения в виде диплома. Пожалуй и все, но мне кажется, что прочитав мои стихи, рассказ и роман, вы больше узнаете и поймете меня. В конце «Одиссея» стоит текст, зашифрованный двоичным кодом. Если расшифровать его, получится небольшая, но очень важная притча; лейтмотив книги. Я искренне надеюсь, что вызвал у вас интерес.
Country : Netherlands
My name is Kyrill Sazonov. I am a 26-year old writer, born in the rainy Netherlands to a Russian-speaking family. During my life, I’ve made a few turns here and there, studying at three different faculties: International Business & Management Studies, European Studies & IT, dropping out of all three. Eventually, I found a firm that specializes in using a stable cryptocurrency (stablecoin) as an escrow method. I am currently also developing an online video game, while casually writing prose, poetry & music. In short, I’m a young, maverick entrepreneur. I hope that after reading my novel, poetry and story, you will find more about who I am as a person and what I stand for. At the end of the Odyssey there is a text encrypted in binary code. If you decrypt it, you get a small but very important parable; the leitmotif of the book. I sincerely hope to have sparked your interest.
Отрывок из новеллы “Odyssey in Binary”
1.A clock bore two children that endlessly conversed.
Tick, tock, loud and clear, echoing about.
“In due time, everything will be fine!” one sibling emphatically ticked.
“Fine?” her brother grimly tocked. “Death awaits us all at the end …”
Their black and white sentiments perpetually intermixed to cast a shade of grey. Somewhere in the United Commonwealth, Room 291 of Sutherham’s Red Cross Hospital to be precise, exactly that shade of grey was present. It was a dull, grey room: bland in every possible perspective. There was no personality to it other than the meagre addition of an artificial orchid on the doctor’s desk, which was the only piece of decoration my eyes could spot.
“Tick, tock,” the clockwork brethren sang and shouted into my ears again, their symphony piercing through the silence as they were seconds short from 10:10. I curled my jacket around my hand as I patiently waited; four more ticks and three more tocks it would take until a man’s voice was to relegate the twins’ timeless ticking and tocking to that of mere background noise.
“Hello, Mr Augustin, please sit down,” the doctor absent-mindedly implored as I laid my jacket to rest against the arm of the chair I had been directed towards. The doctor’s unkempt auburn hair, paired with a coffee stain on his white cotton apron, complemented his indifferent intonation. There was a mocking cliché to his appearance, apparent even in the faint blue-tinted reflection of the glare of his computer screen, which echoed through his glasses. Through those echoes you could glimpse the heavy bags under his eyes. He clearly carried a load of his own, not any different from the factory workers which menially haul cumbersome cargo for hours on end. Even though he had politely urged me to sit down a brief second ago, it begged the question of whether he was even astutely aware of my presence. He seemed lost to the loud, rattling strokes he was making on his computer’s keyboard.
Halting the concerto of keystrokes for a moment, he took off his glasses to rub those tired eyes, briefly looking at his desk up and down, before locking his gaze with mine again. There was an instant change in his demeanour: never before did a single stare make all the hairs on my body stand upright the way they did right now. His chartreuse eyes seemed even colder, as if the green forest of his irises were being dragged into a leafless and barren winter.
“We’ve just received your results,” he intoned sternly. “Mr Augustin. I’m sorry to inform you that you suffer from an incurable and terminal genetic disorder: Huntington’s disease,” his verdict sounded, but his prior aspect had already betrayed the bad news.
What did I have to say regarding this development? What did I even think of it? I had always wondered how people would react to receiving such news. Doesn’t everyone? I always imagined that panic would take hold; that the person’s mind would space out, chucking them into a catatonic state. There was no panic, only the feeling of a sickening realisation oozing in as I sat there: my attention was undivided, and my pupils diluted.
2. Holding on to that notion, I plugged in my headphones and by pressing the play button on my phone, Johann Strauss sang me the tales from the Vienna woods.
Entranced by that relic from an age gone by, I was taken back to that era long past.
The forest filled up with strings and brass.
A sound of history, starting off audaciously and bold. It dwells off, turning timid with a flirtation of flair: A rhythm that shared unique similarities,
making me surmise that I had put on a broken record, which cordially invited me to a passionate waltz; a ballroom with dresses woven with silken emotions. Decorated ceilings and aquarelles painted by sentiments, of the gone times of gallantry and masquerades.
No room for stoic expressions, only archaic façades, which slowly fade away as the music dies, making the phantoms of history return to their graves, taking their rest with those autumn leaves.
3. “Viktor Augustin, your honour.” There he was, dressed up in a suit for his wedding with the law.
“The defendant stands accused of grand theft against L. Vanderbilt, of a total sum of £26,572. The defendant committed this act in cooperation with four other individuals, who will each be trialled separately.
There is something peculiar about courts, I must say. They dance on the periphery of humanity, wiggling objectivity in their delivery towards a sentence, yet no sentence in that room was ever brought forth without emotion, drama nor theatrics.
But what about crocodile tears, however? I guess the verdict between both the sincere and ventriloquists of equal standing remains the same. It’s all about what happens after, though. Outside the courtroom on the streets at daylight. Not the minds of those men and women, but their actions that follow. Theft remains theft. Manslaughter is murder. A mistruth or a lie? That’s up to you.
“The court hereby rules the defendant as guilty of the crime of grand theft …” the judge spoke sternly. I have to admit that, at the time, both my heart and eyes jumped at the words being uttered.
4. We talked for hours on end, and all the while I couldn’t stop thinking, Where the hell have you been my entire life? It had all happened by accident, really. The best things in life do seem to happen by causality. Teen love or an actual adult romance, I had long looked for it, and it had eluded me for what had felt like forever. But even when I’d looked for it, I hadn’t known what to search for. I remembered my mother once telling me a silly proverb: “It’s hard to look for a black cat in a pitch-black room, especially if the cat is not there.” He was called Confucius for a reason, and right up until then I’d never understood the saying, thinking it to be gibberish. Now I knew that as I’d left the dark room, giving up on the search, I’d find the black cat, who was more umber than she was black.
5. “How are you doing, young man?” he continued. Both his demeanour and expression made it impossible not to reciprocate his enthusiasm.
“I’m alright, thank you! Aside from a little problem with my legs here, but someone told me you could help me with that,” I cajoled with a smirk.
“Well, Viktor, lad, I’ll gladly oblige you with that help!” he said with a guffaw. He had a distinct laugh: mildly exaggerated.
“Do you have any idea what we’re doing here?”
“I have a faint idea. I know about the procedure, but the details are beyond me.”
“Well, allow me to elaborate,” the doctor said while gesturing, while rolling his arms into what was best describable as a bow.
“By all means,” I responded.
He turned around, putting his index finger up in the air, much like a clichéd college professor would do before educating the unknowing masses in front of him.
“Up until recently, mapping the entire brain seemed to be a neurological fantasy, you know? Seventy-five million neurons in a mouse brain! A human one has around a hundred billion!” he elucidated with ardour, as he tapped on his own noggin. He stopped for a second, before pointing over at me.
“Technically speaking, we’re still not mapping it. You are.” He took a deep breath, putting his hands together. He tensed up just a little bit, but his initial playful demeanour remained.
“The procedure is hard to explain, but I’ll do my best. The main processing power behind the mapping, copying and transferring comes primarily from your own mind.
“I always wanted to be used as a guinea pig,” I deadpanned, forcing the muscles in my forehead to frown. They know what they are doing, right?
6. Instead of going to work this morning, I drove over to the Sutherham train station. The train to Brixen would depart there from 10:15 sharp, moreover, I knew that five minutes prior to that, another would pass by without stopping.
I climbed its platform while I looked at the pointers of my watch: halfway to 10:09, it should be there soon. With a slow pace, I straddled over to the edge, feeling the soles of my shoes extending over the etched concrete under me. I closed my eyes when I heard that rumbling serenade coming from the distance: Pa-dum, pa-dum – how it made me feel at ease, making my restless mind as still as the wind knowing it would be over soon.
While the train approached, her song grew incrementally louder. My heart refused to thump; as if it had accepted my choice. I sensed its clamorous advance and its reverberating steel through ground and air alike, getting closer while her chorus intensified.
I was on the tip of my toes by now, and held no fear for the perpetual darkness that was to follow shortly. It wouldn’t be different from what I was seeing with my eyes closed now, right? One final determined nudge, and I would tumble over and plummet onto the tracks below that was cast out of the same soulless iron as I was.
Tilting over, a rough draught blew my eyes wide open whilst throwing me off-balance.