Late April evening. An empty parking lot on the waterfront next to a long-closed diner. When you were a child, your parents often brought you here. But now all that remains of this place is a foundation abundantly overgrown with wild bushes. You sit in your small, funny car (yes, it's long overdue for sale, but where will you get the money for a new one?). The engine is off, the windows are down. There is a beer can in your hand, which you have yet to open. A light wind blows from the bay. The smell of the sea mixes with the aromas of cheap plastic and fabric in the car interior, which have been heavily heated all day under the sun. Waves loudly crash against the concrete breakwaters. A lone fishing trawler sways towards the port, followed by a flock of plump seagulls. You finally decide to open the can. The coveted hissing sound is heard. Your lips involuntarily spread into a smile. It feel so good! Of course, not as good as Misha Spektr's 5/8 mix on the radio, but still
