Winter night. You are sitting in a compartment of an intercity train. Outside the window there are silhouettes of warehouses and garage cooperatives on the outskirts of the city, which you do not want to leave. One of your fellow travelers, a painfully thin man in a wrinkled shirt, has already turned his back to the wall on the top bunk and is snoring loudly. The train is passing by an old two-story house made of light brick: a dim light is on in one of the windows, cars in the yard are covered with snow caps, a figure in a long down jacket wearing it next to his or her skin is smoking near the entrance. Your second companion, a large man in a loose tracksuit, sighing heavily as he getting up from his bunk and goes out for a tea to the conductor (out of politeness, he offers to grab a cup of tea for you as well, but for some reason you refuse). You're leaning your head against the cold glass and familiar melodies suddenly appearing in your beautiful head. Maybe in the middle of the night, when you wake up from the loud snoring of one of your fellow travelers, or already in the morning, when the train is slowly crawling towards the station and more than anything in the world you will urgently want to get into a hot shower, you will suddenly remember that it were the tracks from the Mary Roman mix for 5/8: radio, and you will feel very good
