Apartment one hundred twenty nine, sixth floor. Zoya was about to leave the house when all of a sudden it hit her: how tired she was of all of this. Squeezing the last bits of toothpaste from a tube folded multiple times. Writing and deleting messages she desperately wanted to send. Walking along Shosseynaya Street on a winter evening, watching the dim light in the windows of the apartment blocks. Listening to the loud cough of her neighbor from apartment 130. Sitting through seemingly endless conference calls (which, of course, could have been emails). Seeing the reflection of her tired face in the windows of a rusty BMW in the neighboring courtyard. Awkwardly trying to get the bartender's attention on Friday evening, in the timid hope of ordering another unnecessary glass of beer. And constantly choosing something – what to wear, what to watch, which cheese to buy on sale… but then a frunk29 mix for 5/8: radio started playing in her headphones. The stream of nagging thoughts in Zoya's head stopped, and she felt calmer and happier, so calm and happy that she even wanted to live
