The fate of man

– If this damned trough does not fall apart on the water – in two hours come, do not wait.      The farm stretched far to the side, and near the pier there was such silence, which happens in desolate places only in the dull autumn and early in the spring. From the water it was drawn with dampness, the bitter bitterness of rotting alder, and from distant In the steppes of the steppes, drowning in a mist of mist, a light breeze carried eternally young, barely perceptible fragrance of the land newly freed from the snow. Nearby, on the coastal sand, lay a fallen wattle fence. I sat down on He wanted to smoke, but with his hand in the right pocket of a quilted quilted jacket, great disappointment, found that a pack of “Belomor” completely soaked. In During the crossing the wave whipped through the side of the low-lying boat, to the waist she poured me muddy water. Then I had no time to think about cigarettes, It was, having thrown an oar, faster to scoop out water that the boat did not sink, and now, bitterly annoyed at my mistake, I gently extracted from my pocket a drowsy pack, crouched down and began to lay one on the wattle moist, browned cigarettes.