One day my great-grandfather shot a deer, divided it and dragged it home on the snow. Drawing was far away, and the grandfather was still in the tulip, March, frost. The deer smelled the rise and set up a seat on a tree to jump on the grandfather. My grandfather only stumbled and saved. He had a hunter’s knife. Two bodies had to be carried home. And the red skin, please eaten, is still kept by my grandfather.

I am for what? Man is silent, man is silent. All the stories with cockroaches, how and who fled from whom, who is poor and who has an iPhone, who betrays whom and why, as well as who is listening to music until late.

Respect and love others, leave when you are ill somewhere, and everything will be well.