Alexander Makarov. It's too early to bury us (№ 426773)

Raindrops vigorously hammered on the asphalt, turning the pits into small pools for pigeons. The unbearably light smell of cleanliness enveloped lonely passers-by, penetrating into the nostrils without any embarrassment. From this thought began to soar, became airy, elegant, weightless. Bubbles of joy ran through the veins like children in a stadium, overtaking each other with a flood of laughter.