We sit in the morning of January 1 with a small bunch of survivors, discussing what would be better for us to meet this new year in a dream, or to walk all year without sleeping again.
The ghost of the owner of the apartment slowly floats into the kitchen, hanging on the threshold, dumbly exploring the surroundings. The owner's wife is somehow keenly interested in what, he said, stood up. Further beautiful: he sharply shakes, scratches the tree, shakes the rain, takes the tree, returns, drinks someone’s coffee, gets a note from under the table and peacefully goes into work.

The next day, he explained: in any state of strangulation, sleep and cuddling, heins a set of basic algorithms, in particular: if a woman raises her voice in the presence of a tree - it is time to have a miscarriage.