Andriy Podlesny

Andriy was sitting in the kitchen by the open window so that the smell of cigarettes wouldn’t linger in the apartment, quietly listening to music on the speakers and scrolling through his Instagram feed on his laptop. There was an ashtray next to him, with a cigarette leaning against it. Between Andriy and the laptop lay a notebook and a pen — the man was writing poetry again. This calmed him down, comforted him.

Bi-bo-boo, bi-bo-boo, I am poetry...

He sang along to the songs.