Kirill Gluschenko. Ulyanovsk
№ 119 • Artist’s Book

Rafik was covered with snow, and the supervisor and his companions, all wearing fur hats, were sitting inside. Suddenly, the foreman notices me, smiling smugly, and looks me straight in the eye. For some reason, I imagined his nephew, also wearing a fur hat and also fat, walking by the ice rink and pushing his friend, who was not expecting a trick, with the same smile, after which he slides down, but he was not discouraged: he fell face down in a snowdrift and somehow smiled happily and began to eat snow, like cotton candy in the Central Park of Culture and Recreation. Volodyka knew that even though he did not have a fur sable hat...

It got dark outside the window, the bright lights in the room buzzed unpleasantly, the lockers in the locker room were empty. Someone had forgotten a mitten, which was now languishing on a bench against the wall. Volodyka put the book aside and looked at that mitten. Kolka must be walking home now, with his left hand in his pocket and his right hand holding on to his daddy's big gloved hand. It’s pitch-black outside, and the windows in the nine-story houses are burning. Kolka lives in a brand new cooperative house with eleven floors. The house is brick. When you walk into the entryway, the first thing you smell is fresh paint. The elevator also smells like it just came off the assembly line.