“The wrong road often passes by strange places.” (from the runners)

It is beautiful and vivid to say what is there.

I’ve had this with myself several times, especially after the cake.

Here I remembered one thing, quite unusual, fairy tale: I, an eighteen-year-old puppy, didn't get to the house at night, just nothing, and fell asleep on the bench near the entrance.
And I hear through the dream – my ear turns. Yes, it hurts so much, undoubtedly working and nodular fingers.
I'm loosing my zenks - it's early in the morning, and above me our neighbor, Uncle Cole, stands and asks me with a strict voice:

Where were you yesterday, shit? Answer it live.

Well, I’ve got a blame—not everything has gone out of the shell yet, and I burst out bitterly in response to something like, “What’s up to you?”
Uncle Cole gave me a light headscarf and repeated the question:

“Tell me this moment – where did you drink, bitch?

Here, in my head, I began to gradually clarify, and I honestly gathered my thoughts and answered the question posed by the senior and authoritative comrade:

In Tichonovka the birthday of one Kent was celebrated. Uncle Kohl, you just don’t tell my mom that I slept on the bench, right?

Uncle Cole thought for a moment:

In the silence, you say? What way did he go home, drunk?
“Well,” I say, “probably as they all walk: through the steppe, through the desert with the ‘tube’, past the third bath...Uncle Kohl, why did you go? Can I go home? I will not drink anymore. I want to sleep, really...why do you want me?! to

In general, the situation clarified only much later: it turns out, Uncle Cole, coming out of the entrance in the morning, found me sleeping peacefully in the places of grandmothers-neighbors. His gaze accidentally stuck to my dirty shoes "on the platform" and clothes-clothes, flattened almost to the knee with some rare clay in our steppes. Uncle Cole, being an amateur sculptor, has been looking for such clay all his conscious creative life, and here he is: lying to himself, and snooping his neighbor's buoy boy, scattered by the ankle with this craved clay...

In short: Uncle Kolya walked out all the way from us to Tychonovka along and meters and so for a hundred feet; struggled me with the disclosure of the mystery of sleeping in sitting seats; defeating the corporate parental spirit, riding to me with beer, trying to find out the route; twice we went with him to Tychonovka and back at night (both times I walked ahead, drunk, and he, not breathing, followed me in a couple of tens of meters...)
Nothing has helped: the gold clay has not been found.

Here is. They also talk about Columbus.
Columbus was just lucky: he had at least the Marsers were almost sober and were able to record Cuba.