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It was a permanent desire to break one big jackpot when your golden rain pours and pours, when a mountain of gold coins grows in front of you, when the room is expanded and becomes borderless and the whole crowd sees and hears your triumph…
I am a gamer’s mother who heard it that devilish gamblers’ rhyme and understood that the Demon knows no pity or no mercy.
But whenever I looked closely, everything disappeared.
And I came to this endless and terrible trail, where I was brought by Death herself.
Suddenly, having grasped my hand, she dragged me into that wild dance to her own diabolical music, and it was the way of no return.
Have you ever cried from helplessness to change anything in this darkness filling the house?
Have you ever felt completely hopeless fighting with the Demon of gambling for your beloved or child?
And is it not the same Demon that tortures those obsessed with drugs and alcohol, or any other overwhelming passion? Didn’t it, after the slot machines were destroyed, penetrate your home the way rain seeps into the soil?
Didn’t it sedate the maternal instinct and push adults and children into this alien artificlal and meaningless computer world in which all the beautiful things are defiled and everything people are born for dies?Introduction I was never been interested in compulsive gambling.I saw the slot machines placed all around the city, and I saw bunches of lively people moving from one of them to another like spokes around a glittering line.In a strange, jealous stupor I was looking at her face, artless and open, her dark-brown hair scattered on the pillow, her lips, rosy due to the abundance of health.I breathed the stringy smell of cut grass as if coming from a distant meadow.Bare trees were flashed, crouching, bushes were jumping, white stones wereleaping.Sometimes, I saw an absolutely fantastic scenery — tall shadows of people and fancy castles.From time to time, I stole glances at the sleeping people, the woman and her adult son.Nothing disturbed their serene, sweet dream; not the harsh whistles, not the noise and thunder, not the heavy flicks, similar to shots, before stopping at numerous stations.The train was whining, moaning and groaning, as if its iron body was being cut alive.The sound was sometimes clear and sharp as if someone were cutting metal, and sometimes, it was dull and monotonous, taking me away into oblivion…