Quarantine

I went down the elevator, left the entrance, threw out the trash, turned behind the house - and ran into two girls. they got scared, one of them whispered: “killed!” and I thought that today I will be Azazel, Pratchett's death, an unkillable nurse.

A round black and white woman was crossing the road. and I thought that if a tram ran over it, it would split almost perfectly into halves according to color. but there are no trams near my house.

On the self-isolated playground, a mother, a father were sitting, a dog, a daughter were running. and I thought it was time to introduce the fashion for family crypts.

underfoot there were advertisements for prostitutes, no, it seemed like they were children’s chalk drawings. and I thought that the prostitutes were in quarantine, but the children were not. that there will be no flowers of life in bouquets of sexually transmitted diseases.

Disguised lovers sat nervously on the bench and didn’t even kiss. and I thought that the novel and the Julia of our time do not live up to Shakespeare’s heroes.

A sewer manhole was dug up near the road. and I thought that someone was building a bunker for themselves.

The billboard, where the slogans of Saint Xenia and the Communist Party deputy had previously been democratically honestly replaced, was empty. and I thought that now there was definitely no hope. we will die mediocrely, senselessly, ugly and stupidly, just as we lived. and there will only be a hanging month, which could be compared with a translucent slice of lemon in a pre-quarantine cafeteria (sorry for the creatures!), or with the dashing victory of Islam, or with the sympathetic smile of the Cheshire Chekhov, slightly bowing his head, as in one photo card. but no one will compare - there will be no one to compare.