The first floor of the crust. The school is enclosed with a fence, and a narrow strip of land right under the windows, grown with shrubs, bushes, and huge topoles. How well, I thought, no roads, no cars, no idyll. Shaking his hands, he thought: I broke a piece of silence in the metropolis, good luck! How I was wrong...
The first time I felt awkward when I decided to open the window at 6 a.m., I jumped away and slipped to the window as unnoticed as possible. Under my window, bending, running from the bush to the tree, the red Khmer moves, that is, the Vietnamese from the neighboring substance market, the squad numbered about 30 fighters. They moved quietly, walking in the footsteps, the spectacle fascinated. They escaped from patrol cars, which as combines collected cash from them. The harvest was placed on the stream, on every street by car, in each crowded by the tightness of the law enforcement officers, heavily pulling the stomach and greedy turning the eyes. Well, okay, the inhabitants of the jungle behaved quietly, did not strain. But on the path of Hosemine (national) periodically tried to move representatives of the middle Russian altitude, mostly drunk. Growth, crack, mat, and then the complaining bleeding of a slave trapped in a bush. Once I went out to get, as I thought, a cat that was stuck, but saw the crying, unshaken harry of the mother man, unfortunately broke out of the most bulging and thick bush. He tried to pass through it. Why Why? 5 meters parallel road. A flat asphalt and even a tent with ice cream. But these are all small things. Go to mysticism.
Every day at 5.30 a.m. he began to wake up from unclear sounds, first an unclear ticking on the cement slope, then a three-minute crack and the movement of several bushes and... a deep, full of satisfaction, breathe. Everything happens. Maybe someone has struck. But every day! Even the clock. I tried to see, the bushes walk on the sidewalk, and there is nobody, then everything dies... and this breath. I decided to subdue. At about six and a half in the morning, an enormous, old, black dog appeared in the corner of the house, living in the courtyard, fed by heart-hearted old ladies. When I saw it, I retreated. The dog stood, smelled, shrugged at the windows, the nails gave a unique blow. How he shrugged! By the sides, back, he barely bowed around these bushes, and at the end, pulling his beard over a thick branch, gave out that sweet-passionate breath. No mysticism, no mysticism.
In the summer, the citizens began the race, the marriage season, they sucked eggs and beer at night and in the morning dragged citizens with "dirty necks" into bushes. Tired of listening to their loud confessions of love, rushing to get up in the middle of the night and chase them, he recorded on the disc the phrase "What are you doing here? A?" from the famous film, and wrestled a magnetol from the controller on the window. Then I heard a whisper and thunder. very comfortable.
Here is a beautiful morning. I woke up from the complaints, someone's thick bass persuaded the baby to start the socialization, the female broke. I gave the magnet. In the morning silence, a phrase known from childhood loudly spread. The male grew up, began to spin, looking for a competitor, judging by the sounds, the specimen was a kilogram of 100 no less. Not finding the goal, issued a powerful stream of mate, threatening character. How in the break was to get up, and already pulled for clothes, as he heard a familiar knocking. Oops, this is interesting. Everything froze, and suddenly a deaf whisper. The dog has flogged, his favorite bush is used as a kind of pine, for dirty purposes. I jumped to the window in time. The virgin departed in the posture of a river scorpion, with the jeans lowered, to the side of the fence, wrapping the earth and garbage with her hands from fear. Along the house, the dog stuck in the trousers, chased the big hairy ass of the caregiver, who cried and called for help. After falling several times, the man broke out of the dog, and ran out on the wheet-congs, going to the market. What they thought when they saw a half-naked, wealthy man with blood on his legs, I don’t know, but they all fell on the fence of the school as one. Hop, and sit on the top, on the corks, their eyes blink. My neighbor, looking at the noise, watched the painting with oil. A ruthless virgin crawling under the fence, twenty wretched Vietnamese on the fence, a happy dog cleaning her skin under the bush, the cranks of the canyon cries away, and police officers looking fearfully out of the corner. When he saw my happy birth in the window, he inquisitively asked, “Is this a private party?”