In the evening, about half seven. I find it hard to catch myself angry and hungry in a crowded bus. We go. I stand almost on one leg, holding my face to someone’s back and barely falling on my grandfather sitting behind. And here on the edge of my eyes I see a wonderful spectacle: a light-haired virgin in a pink coat and a pink hairy hat, with long eyelids and glossy lips, clutching on the back of someone else's seat and pressing a glamorous lacquered bag-baul with a hand bended in the elbow, holds a healthy piece of half-copper sausage in his fingers and hungry bites from it. My patterns have not yet grown...