XXX: I still remember one picture for some reason... I can’t forget it.
Morning...Warm sunlight from the east, from the west flooded thunderstorms, gentle winds chased dust and all kinds of shells on the trottoirs...herbs on the lawns bloomed and collapsed...
And right along the prospectus, on the asphalt of the roadway, a structure of grass-cutting machines with gasoline trimmers is running, and they are on, and they make characteristic "cutting" movements... somebody periodically starts the stung trimmers, or gives more turns, and because of this the sound typically pulses...
The picture is completely apocalyptic. Ten green-builders go and cut the asphalt with motorcycles... with a frightened hammer they pull the motors of the cows, smelly smoke from worn-out two-stroke engines. And these guys go with stone faces.
XXX: And they mock, they mock, they mock...
xxx: And because of the total abnormality of the situation, it begins to seem that they symbolize something. Something not good. This is the darkness of the asphalt jungle.
And so they cut fifty meters of road canvas, came to the lawn, and immediately lay down to rest among the bushes of the boiler.
Overall, more than a year has passed, and I can close my eyes, and hear this monstrous sound of the simultaneous work of a dozen or more motokos, and see this inevitable move of a dozen terminators in an orange uniform.