Dmitry Glukhovsky. Text (№ 300620)

Stood there and thought: on the outside the air is very rarefied. Places here too, the population density is too low. In the area here for a hundred and fifty people in the barracks, the prison fifty in the house, bunks in three tiers, to a stranger the fates of two feet; and each, instead of fate - an open fracture; the sharp fragments out. It is impossible not to stumble on the other, it is impossible not to strut for me, do not smear the meat in rags. Climb into each other's eyes, in the nose with his stinking guts, a member of the poke. Nowhere from each other to go. First terribly from this, then sick to vomit, then get used to it, and then without it, even empty. In the wild with other people in different apartments live wall to separate the train every in his bubble goes. As the tea bags after chifir - so on the outside. Sit, think - outside only all genuine. Out - falshak. Life in the zone Wraith, and nothing is more present there.