In the fall of 1965, my father and I returned from Kyiv to a small district town of Lugansk region. The realities of our provincial life in the mining Territory (accumulated by the terrikons and with a large concentration camp between them) were so painful that I was sick of the winter. And in the spring of 1966 he gathered two friends at home (my peer, a boy of about eleven and his sister of about nine) and dictated this text. It seems that it was "made" in triplicate.

Everything goes according to plan. Russia has returned to the circle of grades of world politics. No matter how these weaknesses Obama, Hollande and Merkel grimac, but they will have to sit down in Putin’s company at the Yalta table and draw new boundaries like Stalin and Churchill. Let it be not the boundaries of Ukraine. Syria will come now.