Духless. Повесть о ненастоящем человеке

The generation born in 1970-1976, so promising and so promising. Whose start was so bright and whose life was so mediocrely wasted. May our dreams of a happy future rest in peace, where everything should have been different ... R.I.P. ... I can't afford to have a book lying in the back seat in my car with the title "Combat Attacks" or "Special Forces Getting in Touch". I don’t watch Brigada, I don’t like Russian rock, I don’t have Seryoga’s CD with Black Boomer. I read Houellebecq, Ellis, I watch old movies with Marlene Dietrich. And I spent my first money not on a four-year-old beha, like the boys have, but on a trip to Paris. And I am bursting with tenderness and romance of the situation, and I feel good, as in childhood, when my mother covered me, sleeping, with a blanket. And it seems to me that the scales have swung. And that bowl of them, filled with pieces of good, fragments, resting somewhere in the depths of me, went down, outweighing all my nasty things that seemed to be dominant until tonight. Or is it all just me?