Zakhar Prilepin. Pathology (№ 162829)

Sometimes I question the virtuosity of the driver. When we, two charming men, I'm a foster child, traveling around the city, I doubt everything. I doubt that the flowerpots do not fall from balconies, and mutts do not throw at people, I doubt that ragged in the past month, the wire of a Telegraph pole not numb, and manholes do not fall, opening the boiling darkness. We cherish the most. The boy trusts me, am I entitled to fail?
In particular, I doubt the virtuosity of the bus driver. But to say that I doubt a little. Horror, similar to predvichnyj sensations, driving my unshaven cheeks, and my hands pressed against a three year old with chicken bones body, and my fingers touch his hands, earlobes, forehead, I am convinced that he is a warm, dear, my, here, there, on his knees, the only, unique, funny, strict, and he takes my hand unhappy I prevent it to look like moss.
We're going over the bridge...