When I was a child, I had an adult friend, Aidar, living in my neighboring apartment. Well, as an adult – a year, probably three years older than me. His mother glued some nonsense from clay and practiced urine therapy on Idara, and Idap read the magazines "Coster" and "Young Technician" and inspired by them wrote in notebooks multi-volume novels about pioneers flying in silent space on different planets and spreading communism, heroism and uncomfortable teenage love there. On the cover of these notebooks, Aidar painted huge burning rockets, and it caught me so much that I also wanted to become a serious writer. I couldn’t stand it and I went to write a novel too. First I painted a fine flaming rocket, but the inspiration ended. I thought for a long time how it would be easier for me to send pioneers into space and drag them there into adventures, but I never came up with it. As a result, he randomly combined the names and surnames of the writers from the crusts of the parent books and wrote: "The cosmonauts Ivan Bulgakov, Vladimir Tsvetaev and Nikolai Hemingway overwintered on a distant planet but heard the furious roar of the mutant and sat back and flew." I recently went to my mom, found in my children's stuff, read - in my opinion, a good novel.