We do not have a cellphone, and the entrance is closed on the key. The late autumn. I go out in the evening, at the entrance there is some man of not quite presentable appearance and says - I, say, a homeless, let half an hour warm up at the battery. And I’m somewhat stubborn to let go a little, but it’s like it’s a pity in a human way. Okay, I say to you, grey. Within an hour we are back with our wife, there is no battery. I left, I think. We climb to our floor (the last), and there the painting with oil - this man is snoring on the floor in front of our door, next to the empty bottle of port wine rolls and the awful smell of bombs on the whole entrance. If we woke him up, we barely persuaded him to go out, handed on the trail some sort of hot tea, cups of cucumbers (which got under the hand).

And somewhat ugly on the soul, like a man thrown out into the cold.

And in the morning we go out to the entrance, and we are on the pitch. The soul immediately calmed down.