The clock was struck twice
The clock was struck twice. Outside the window, in the sky, the angular, as if a prickly month, was going on, until oddly, coming to a braid. He illuminated the entire Prechistensky Boulevard, So quiet at this time of the day, in some way mysterious. In a small room, on the floor, in a broken pose, there was a man holding something in his hands. On his forehead there were drops of sweat, and his lips kept trembles.