"The magical city of my youth is eighteen -year -old Luzhkovskaya Moscow - in spirit completely different"

Yuri Luzhkov left

There is a magical city, squeezed between the two imperial capitals, between Moscow late-Soviet, dressed in the granite-concrete Kurguzy apparatchik suit, strict, poor and therefore ascetic, and between the current Sobyaninskaya Moscow-non-Soviet, dressed in the granite-chigs “Brioni”, strict and slightly battered-but only from yesterday’s that with yesterday The oil and gas corporate party to today's temple service has not yet been changed.

One - Moscow of my childhood - it seems to me such a harsh mother, who is all her youth in lines, which itself is brought up without tenderness, which is the main thing - that the children are fed and not hurt. The other - Moscow of my maturity - is clear to me and it seems to me to my peer, an invigorating, young, during the day, one life leading, and at night another, depicting cheerfulness at night, and during the day - spirituality.

But the magical city of my youth - eighteen -year -old Luzhkovskaya Moscow - is completely different in spirit. Then the empire was not built and did not pretend that they were being built, and Moscow did not need to puff to look like a metropolis. Then no one knew how it should, and no one thought, how decent, so it was possible as you want. It was not ashamed then for nothing, because young old people reproached the young people with shamelessness, and only because it was sorry for their own bashfully and mediocre your youth, and only because I did not want to let the young people let go of another life. It was wild and unsafe why, yes, he left the house and did not know what would happen to you outside his walls - anything! “But I did not know what would happen to you, and therefore I just wanted to go out.”

It was then, during these eighteen years of its minority, Moscow got rich, broke, decorated herself and mutilated herself as best she could, a girl who escaped from the house, who was pushing to money, to cosmetics, to jewelry, even, first to boys and then to men.

It was fun, because everything was possible. Moscow had a nouveau-nouveau, he was bogged down, and she cooled. It was more fun. Freedom was unlimited.

Now there is a limit to everything. Moscow is fabulously good, having married an official. Botox, plastic, rejuvenating cosmetics on top of wrinkles. Beauty - yes, not living beauty - well, and there is something bewitching in flowering. The beauty of women from the Federation Council, not the little faith and not young rawresh.

Just the era is different. Then they rushed up behind the sip of air, now we go to the bottom in the funeral rook. And there is a tear, and in this, and that was good, and it was beautiful.

Briefly speaking. Rest in the world, Yuri Mikhalych.