I’ve been on the metro for a long time. I stand. In front of me sits a guy... an obvious major and glamourist. The bright colors. The clerical look. I cannot tolerate them. He is sitting. I think he’s reading some hernia. Ann no...he sat reading Poetry of the Scaldos (Scandinavian poetry, if anyone does not know). When the electrician stopped he heard that in his headphones he was playing the 2nd piano concert with Rahmaninov. Then he gave up his place to a grandmother. When he went out, he opened his bag and laid the book there... there I also saw a book with Mandela’s poetry.

People... People are so different. It doesn’t matter what it looks like, it matters what it is inside.