This morning I woke up at 5 a.m. and decided to go out to the balcony to smoke. A day ago, my brother picked up a fireplace in the form of a F1 hand grenade. I go out on the balcony, smoke and, throwing the lighthouse in my hand, look at the new car in the yard with an open head. At this time, a 40 year old aunt goes out to smoke on the balcony. He looks at me, nervously throws:"Hello, Ilya!" and quickly falls back onto the flat. I first don’t catch up and start to look at myself, what’s wrong with me... And then I realize that I’m wearing camouflage pants, a sleeve with a raised fist, wrapped with a clutch wire, an army cap... hair curling like Che Guevara, a week’s squeeze on my moustache, and I look apathetically at an expensive foreigner with a cigarette in her teeth, throwing a grenade...

Here I sit and wait for my FSB curator to come.