It's a cloudy day in the end of September or already in October. You're standing in an old garage site. On the left there is a noisy highway, on the right — a neighborhood with 16-storey Brezhnev-era panel buildings. You don’t look very good: rust can be seen under the peeling paint and the gates is overgrown with moss. A large old man in dirty overalls, everyone calls him Uncle Slava, as always doing something with his «Volga» car. He won't go anywhere, he hasn't been going anywhere for a long time. A stray dog greedily drinks from a dirty puddle. A kid in Kappa sweatpants is pushing his broken moped somewhere deep into the garage site. What did your owner look like? He seemed to have blond curls and a habit of wearing sunglasses even at night. Stop! Or he had a slicked back dark hair, deep scar above the eyebrow and a ring on his pinky? You don't remember anymore. All he left behind was a calendar on the wall (March 1997, a faded photo of a topless brunette girl with a seascape on the background), a tin can filled with cigarette butts, and beige «Lada» with a pine tree air freshener hanging on a mirror in the interior. If there is anything that can intrigue more than the fate of the garage owner who disappeared in the maelstrom of the 90s, then it will be Vika Shishatskaya's mix for 5/8: radio
