You're standing in a small courtyard. Around you are three Khrushchyovkas made of gray brick and a slightly tilted concrete fence. Crickets are chirping in the tall grass. The dim light of a street lamp barely penetrates through the branches of an old poplar tree. You can hear a freight train crawling in the neighboring block. Someone left a beer bottle on a bench near the playground. A girl in an oversized crumpled T-shirt is meditatively smoking in the window of one of the buildings. Soon she will extinguish the cigarette on the windowsill, throw it into the flowerbed and disappear into the blackness of the window opening. And you will remain in the same place. Because you are a car covered with a thick layer of pollen, whose owner slammed the door and disappeared without a trace on the same hot night ten or even twenty years ago. And nothing is more beautiful than your rusting body, except perhaps the mix of Circle Audio for 5/8: radio
