Comrade shared his story yesterday. He has a teenage son.

The case, he says, was a few years ago. I go to my son's room, and he's a piece of paper, a little smaller. What do you do? I ask, he is silent. I never got a response from him. Recently it was discovered.



The man appears to have composed a poem. I wrote it on a leaflet. And then I realized that weakly worked, and began to see traces. Most of all, he was afraid that his poem would be found on the landfill by bombs, and would be carved over it.