To the sounds of MU, or Confession of a Policeman
Night. Street. Flashlight. And the screams of girls and guys. And the music rumbles incessantly... So, near my house, a group of careless young people are celebrating the last warm days (or rather, nights) of Indian summer. Rush through the walls, through the glass of the words of the songs. The repertoire is excruciatingly pop. This annoys even more - no sleep, no pleasure: “Tell me, tell me, cherry”, “My thoughts, my horses”, “It hurts me, it hurts” ...