I confess

I could say that this is a collection of short stories, stories, that there are only seven of them and all of them are written in the first person, but I see the book differently. For me, these are not just stories and, most importantly, not just characters, for me these are people. Living people. From flesh and blood. Lyudmila, Paul, Jean and others, nameless, talk about themselves. Almost all of them speak in the dark, at night or at such a moment of life, when they are not too well distinguished from night. Trying to understand themselves, they expose, remove armor, open their souls. It turns out not everyone, but even attempts make me empathize. To say that you emphasize your own characters is probably too pathetic, but I repeat: for me these are not characters, but people, real people, my new friends, whom I imagine today