Intermarcity. Kirill Koshkin

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      The morning began as if someone else’s bright future was beginning. The city is blue and appearing through silhouettes, smelling with heavy leaves and sleepy people. A mellow rumble spreads. Above the eastern edge is a parallelepipedic cloud. In it, the path winds fiery, paved with a new, rising sun. An open balcony door takes the passing morning whisperers in the frame. They are immersed in each other faces, tangle their hair. Whisper with quiet coins rolls out of barely moving lips. A bird flies past the window. Then two more. Wings through the air, like an echo of an indecipherable babble on the bed. Birds whisper at dawn. Women whisper with the innermost. A sleepless night rolled into the University. She took a phenamine ticket, licked the biting meat, fingers, and, swallowing the rowan nighttime blue of the barol, spilled something red already on the western edge. She has let out senseless museum visitors in veins of the Bolotnaya Square. Then they floated and looked at the strange, black-and-white faces from the parallel reality. They walked and went again. Now they lie exhausted and cut off the received by the predicate and inaccurate.