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11 6th, 2008| 
They always well served fatherland. They were soldiers, policies; Politics, owned the ground, but among them there were no artists. Though, there was one. Very much for a long time. Him have killed in a tavern near to the ? R? -hall. His name was always mentioned with contempt. ” Verses of unworthy man “, - the grandfather used to say. - Now present, that he has told, when has has found out, that I wish to be the sculptor. - Tell, - has whispered. The father has shaken a head. Is it was impossible. Mature in pantyhose and nylons.
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To me already was the future. I should go on his stops. I should not become the soldier or the politician. I was the son of the land owner, and should become same, as he. I should study to operate an estate and to lead all life, trying to resemble the father. - And you did not want this, - have told. - No. I hated it. I hated all in. I hated the house and rules which were spread by the father, his relation to all to us - mum, my sister Grejs and to me. He counted itself(himself) as our owner. He in all demanded obedience.
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