I sit at home and wipe my electric guitar with vodka. Well, she and skin fat with dirt wipes out well, and the lacquer does not spoil. I ate sweets that I pulled out of the kitchen. I put the guitar on the stand. I just turn to the compass, my mom comes in.
A five second scene. I sit at the table, on the table a bottle of vodka, candy. The Mother’s phrase:
Are you sad, son?