Vitaly Yevseyev. (№ 298852)

It seems that if you start otkolupyvat the paint from the wall on the access site, the layer-by-layer read the history of the country over the last thirty years. All incoming and departed remained here, remained in Sparta the air between the flights of stairs, left to smolder in the night in the ashtray on the windowsill. You come from the street, and on the psyche supposedly pushing all of this cacophony, at once sounding of the era, the music of different rhythm and tune, the sound is mixed to a pulp and becomes dissonant noise inside the ringing silence of the entrance, not to parse words, read the meaning. A dozen overhauls never weathered from this depressive spirit of the past with the smell of bleach and tobacco. The spirit's claws dug deep into the concrete, and past growls and grins at everyone who tries to put on this point.