I flew in Saturday morning on the Arbat, take on exhibition their cats , the last day, Uff. I go out back on the street - business by noon, the sun is shining, the snow white, cold, brutal, beautiful - such a terrible winter beauty, as in "The Golden Compass" some, suddenly I hear the rhythmic sounds unnaturally cheerful, I think for some reason: "the former Georgia center serves Chukchi ensemble. But no, knishnaity. In the orange down jacket and long, orange, the same attire, well and who is in what, until the assault element forms. Dance, tapping, coconut sweet balls and distribute books in the warm-bright covers. And under their own music, next to a little buratinistymi asexual concerted Hare Krishnas danced two young black man. With big, white feather wings - advertise something. And now, with these wings, by Krishna Mouzon, fuck skillfully and with ardor some ape on bent, joyously scabrous.
And on top, the monument to Pushkin, Natalia Goncharova, the branches hang ice sculptures - too little angels, transparent like that. And above the sun, blue sky. Moscow, in general.
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