Mikhail Borisovich Bar. (№ 263827)

Summer goes out every evening. Sit on the porch, spread out on baking sheet with a sheet of tracing paper peppermint leaves to dry, looking like between the window frames floundering on the back of a Golden brantovka like hanging around the yard with a fine warm rain lurking around the corner of his kennel the dog thinks that now catch the Sparrow that pecks barley porridge from her bowl, as coming from the garden wife thinks I'll get one and kick the crap out of the dog that dug up half the garden with the strawberries, as they both do not work, as the first number has long been twenty-seven, summer, strewn white petals of mock orange, goes out every evening.