It's beautiful in Scotland.
They called me late at night. Said – Sashka is dead in Moscow.
A car ran him over. I wasn't surprised. There were only six left
from the original eight.
The story is not complicated. We – DEREVO – were already about
to leave, abandoning many people without any explanations. Still
I got together with friends from a hippie gang but it was getting
claustrophobic with them. Their concentrated hate toward reality,
toward the society, was impossible to bear. One of our girls fell
in love with those shining teeth of spite, with Sashka. In a month
she came to me crying. We drank a bit.
– What happened? I asked.
– He bit me completely.
– You always knew he would, I said. Why do you cry then?
– They've destroyed him. He has begun to piss in an underground,
despised for his barking.
I gave him a ring. But the company was off to a village, Kalishki?
Kulichki?... We went too. When they got back to Moscow they returned
to being dogs. They sprang upon the cars at the Hotel "Rossija
". I've seen them once. They slept on a lawn, ragged and filthy.
I didn't come near. I recognised Sashka because of his pointed shoulders.
He raised his head, snarled, yawned and started to look into me.
I was not cold and I was ashamed of my clothes, of my human form.
I thought to invite him to our performance, to say that we fight
for souls as we are able to, as we can, through to the end.
I didn't invite him.
And... honestly, it's beautiful in Scotland.