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In the cabinet of "true lovers of hot beach vacation", wrapped in warm things on the occasion of the cooling, our main sab-zirich of frostbite (a guy who grew up in the north) enters in a T-shirt and, looking at the acidic rows of the frostbite, with the intonations of Lieutenant Rzhevsky echoes:
How is the weather, gentlemen?
- Go out, someone in troubled feelings whirls.
I think it’s wonderful! Plus 11 in the afternoon after plus 45 - that's the same, I'm sorry, Fuck it!
The hell is going back. The lights switched on the heater.