The theory of the dead world

Victor his mother Gromov sat, falling apart in an armchair, like the clientele of abortions. He thought that for the first time in his life at such a later time, he was sober as midwives during childbirth. “We should have a drink for this,” he thought gloomily, taking a bottle of Brandy from the table. Gromov poured himself into a glass and drank from his throat. He did not try to cry out his pain, which in general did not. He burned his life, which they say that no.
Victor shyly looked around. On one of the walls of the penthouse, a portrait of Joseph Dzhugashvili hung at the top of the Gromov Building tower. Gromov stared intently into his empty eyes, thinking about a man who dared to hang this dementia on his sophisticated Rococo. He took a glass of branded branded and launched it right on the target - the portrait broke from the wall under a characteristic ringing of glass