"Chumpu." Diary of a frozen person. Part 2
Sergey Mostovshchikov transmits from Yakutsk When they say that in Yakutsk minus 50, they exaggerate a little. At least in the case of me. I left the plane at seven in the morning, it was minus 48, which, you see, still warm. Nevertheless, it seemed from habit, as if even the hair on my legs said “I-th” and stood on end, like a horse in front of the abyss. The lungs turned into paper, the nose into iron, eyes - into glass.