I really did not want to write “about psychos” again and again in the already wonderful new year: I thought that everything would be quiet and cordial, everyone would sleep under a Christmas tree of up to the tenth, wake up, eat “olivier”, drink vodka, scatter a tangerine around the house, and then pour over the TV murmur again. And good Morpheus all week will be strictly looking at this idyllic picture of universal prosperity. Honestly, I dreamed. I was erased to write.