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...Karelia, overgrown single-track, wet branches beat against the sides of the carriages so that the spray obscures my eyes. Hands are warmed by an aluminum cup with coffee. I light a cigarette again, stretched out to my full height under the damp contact network, sweetly risking joining Club 27. The sky is ablaze. God, if only I could sit down at my typewriter again, just to see the old fall of leaves again. Close in the library, cling to the pages of ancient books. Yes, this road will end. The clank of metal made me wake up. At that moment I was looking at the coupling and I suddenly remembered the last dream, where we were still holding hands with her. ...So I while away the nights. The carriages sing their squeaky elegies to me. They were wavering, delightful symphonies, and I was still looking for darkness where it was not and could not be. Somewhere ahead of me was waiting for a cold, gloomy Murmansk, somewhere again at the edge of the Earth. Support me in a new journey:
