I remembered.

The Soviet man is my friend. I recognize his eyes. He is not lying, he is only rotating on his skulls. In his narrow apartments, he silently grows old and grows moustaches, in the day-to-day he drinks strong tea, on weekends - vodka. When I come to visit someone, I immediately look at the wallpapers – if they are old, in flowers, with spots, bubbles, photo wallpapers, foolish calendars – I am in the house where I will be understood. Here they live honestly, they don’t trust anyone, they despise many, they drink tea endlessly and wait for it to end. Welcome to the world of the missing, ugly, closed, short-sighted. This is my home, I don’t need another.