MONK Bashny.Net

< Tim Skorenko



It would seem that everything has calmed down, it subsided the country was dispersed peacefully impending storm. On the square in the center of Moscow is burning monk walking past the carefully hiding his eyes. They have television and other home comfort, they have daily squabbles and bickering with his wife, they are, if they drink, the people's voice to sing, they scribbling denunciations colleague behind. But their pride wakes up when a character with the makings of a leader is something broadcast from the stands, they say it - because our! No, it simply: he - our! - On the shoulders of other people laying their fate. And it is nothing to do, he did - just one, he went out to buy bread and their flow was demolished, and became suddenly above the rat race, and only on the platform suddenly realized that it was not a dream

. And somewhere in the alley from the cold goes out riot police, they want to drink, but wait! - On the job impossible. They somehow just know that this is not a dream, because doubt less premiums threaten. And someone muttered quietly, they say, it's time to the area, warm up, warm sympathetic, browned face; their grandfathers went on the attack with fearless "Hurrah!" - they are silent, like a pack of undead. Comes Order: expect. The young captain comes out of the groove: getting crowded inside, the other says - where are you going, without an order - where? And he says, to hear what he says. And listen in silence, and the word flies over Moscow, lost in snowstorms and the Kremlin walls, and the audience can hear a dull staccato whine and think, "will soon be over" and "cold, shit." One only saves accidental leader of the masses from the grim work in Siberia on chopping ore - sitting at a warm glasses ruling class can not see it through the black smoke monastic

. Then everyone goes peacefully down in life. We all - the TV and other home comfort. Rostrum speaker to a future meeting forgotten. Came - a mug with the arms, over the capital - a salute. And the ruling class ensures: Spring is coming, and again promises a little sit down and walk away. On the square in the center of Moscow is burning monk, and a naked girl running screaming into the lens.

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