The impossibility of the island
I walk along a long, deserted white beach to a huge rusty gut with sails. It rises about two kilometers from me, and from afar not to make out what it is. Along the way, I almost stumble about Stepa, who establishes Bologna’s awning for himself and the son at the very edge of the sea. Stepa is a master of the hot workshop from Murmansk. On this deserted sea of Step, having quiting Murmansk work and selling a Murmansk apartment, he arrived with his family a year and a half ago.