I lie sick in the bed, I hear an upset female whisper on the balcony. Something fell down (a glass ashes, as it turned out), whispering an octave down and up (the tear connected...) a cat with smoking menthol smoke in his teeth will crash into me and try to find refuge by buriing in the blankets. He plunges under the blanket, burns me, gets a pinch, and, flying into the wall by a hollow bow, looks at the puddle with resentment and sadness. At the moment when the cat is already landing, the look promises me that he has hidden a slight sadness on me, the wife breaks and after screaming: "Do not spoil the skin, he is mine!" - they both hide somewhere there. I look at the thermometer - 39... And if there was a boy... (c)