Poet

An unnamed province near Leningrad, 1989. The train tracks are noisy not far from the window, irritating the ear, but calming the tired mind. Your poet is full of sadness again, crying, turning to the window, washing down his grief with strong alcohol. You are sitting on a chair behind, calmly looking at the pathetic sight that your university friend has become. No, it's really pathetic.. But a creature native to you, which you have absolutely no strength to abandon. He drinks quite often, he doesn't look like himself at all. His features are marred by the constant longing that has been haunting him for the past three years. He is only 27, but his face reflects the sadness of the centuries, which has accumulated on the steam clouds that have accumulated over the city in a thick blanket, through which it is difficult and painful to look. His appearance hurts your eyes, but you think that even if you were blind, you would not leave him to his fate.«Read to me.. Please.»His quiet voice sounds through the rumble of wheels outside the window. Your poet is coming to you, holding out a collection of Pushkin's poems. When you take it, he sits on his knees in front of your chair, puts his head on your lap and sighs softly, closing his eyes. Every night when he's not drinking.. it looks like this. But this is the happiest part of his day. The part of the day when he feels like a child again..