Here it was, the joy my father had spoken of. The joy of not being alone.
I had money and found a device. The whole day went on the news. Around me people were boiling, though not over the right thing: the dollar had jumped from eighty to a hundred and twenty. A meme appeared, “What happened?”, and you recognized your own by the answer: “War.” In the evening I reached the club and understood that the word “war” had already entered the room. Then I found a clip with an appeal.…
The early nineties, the coup. I was nobody then, just a student, and I went to stand at night as a living wall at the Leningrad TV center. I knew they could attack. I went, in essence, to be killed. And I was glad, because I met many wonderful people. Otherwise you couldn’t remain yourself.
Yesterday we drank together; today we don’t look at each other. Some gathered by the TV, nodding at official news. Others sit on the dance floor, scrolling Telegram and whispering. Between us, emptiness and an invisible wall. Even the “five pillars” of urban improvement hanging on the wall amuse no one today.
At the “For the Right Cause” state farm a vegetable storage awaits him, egg cartons on the walls, where sound dies instantly. The host of an embattled channel is checking light and audio before a rare evening: tonight a guest will join him, one over whom spears will be broken under the streams for a long time. The guest holds his cup of coffee so familiarly, so domestically.
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