27.01.2026, 4:04
The factory. Iron. Rust. Everything creaks, everything hums. This is not a school. There is no Pushkin, Blok, Pasternak here. His muses are not here. My muses are not here. There are only orders here. And him. Morozov. His smell — not the smell of a man, but the smell of a foreign land. USSR, the Urals. His family is there. His life. And me? My life — what is it? Books. Students. And this. This is the price. The price for the air I breathe
Читать весь текст →