The city centre is full of people. By the way, the unbroken, life-threatened man, aged 30- 35, of a drunken appearance, but seemingly sober, swarms with scattered cords. He sees two aluminum cans near the urn, tosses them with his legs and throws them into a bag. He looks into the urn, gets two more, also vigorously scatters and sends there. He passes a few meters further, sits in a new beha with a pathos sporting curtain and hides behind the horizon in 3 zimas of gas.
The crowd at the stop accompanies him with overwhelmed jaws and a loud whisper from the inside (a female voice, with indiscriminate envy):
I struck...