We stand at the stop, the last trams pass, but we don't want to go yet - we are so good. The trams fly to the stop, slow down, open the doors on the go, and immediately close them with a thunder (rush, see).
Picture: Another tram flies, from the semi-opened door falls on the body of a drunk in plasticine man, surrounds the stop with dim eyes and pronounces: "$b your mother, it is already an hour of night!Someone’s hand pulls him back, the doors clog, the tram disappears.
After a minute’s pause, one of us pronounces, “That’s what they are, clocks with a coconut...”