Den' tradicionno za desyat'; desyat' krayne strannyh dney. Raz v paru chasov hochetsya vykluchit' 3-D-Indiyu vokrug, vyity na balkon podyshat', vypit' chayu, s'est cho-nibud' takoe, chto vyglyadit pohozhim na privychnuyu edu, pozvonit' Ryzhey, skazhem; Ryzhaya! Ya ne dozhdus' tebya v Deli, prosti, tut reshitel'no nechego delat', my edem vglub'.
Nash nevosmutimyi grug Amit, Mister Love&Peace-2008, chelovek, sposobnuy legko soyti za meksikantsa, peruatntsa, prosto ulybchiviy kusok shokolada, kogda-to davno - seychas budet smeshno - igral v nekoey postanovke pro Alexandra Sergeevicha Pushkina. On igral Del'viga. My vchera emu peli pesnyu pro temnuyu noch, a on chital nam monolog Del'viga. "Fuck that stupid poetry. Let's make a revolution!"
Eto v tom zhe gorode, gde ludi pisayut pryamo na trotuar, dazhe ne popytavshis' otoyti podal'she, deti zhgut kostry vdol' ulits, ni odna vyveska ne pribita rovno i kazhdaya sodergit po tri gomericheskie oshibki minimum, a velosipedy, avtobusy i gruzoviki srazu proizvodyatsya rjavymi i raz'ebannymi - tselogo ne videli ni odnogo.
Plus da, ya taki S'ela Chto-to Ne To.
O, udachi mne.
