Victor Astafiev. Sad detective (№ 362467)

He was in his hometown, out from under the wet visor caps, both taught service, routinely noted that was done around that stood, walked, and drove. Sleet pulled up not only movement, but also the life. People stayed at home, preferred to work under the roof, on top a Lil squished everywhere, flowed, water ran not streams, not rivers, as it is colourless, sploshno, flat, informal: lay, circled, shimmered from a puddle in a puddle, from the gap into the gap. Everywhere revealed was covered with debris: paper, cigarette butts, recessie boxes, flutter in the wind the cellophane. Black trees on grey poplars clung crows and jackdaws, their move, another bird dropped by the wind, and she immediately blindly and heavily clung to the branch, sleepily, with senile grumbling the bridge at her, as if were choking on a bone Klenov, stopped. And thoughts Sosnina to match the weather, slow, thick, barely stirred in the head, not tech, not running, but it is sluggish to move, and this movement far no light, no dreams, only one concern, one concern: how to live?