Sunday

You wake up in pab, your left sleeve is inundated beer, all by smoke, such special, English, he eats in everything and stands his part, does not corrupt, it is not. He complements. Colouring of bar is a chestnut color, 3 playing machines blinks in a corner, in other an old barman braids a language with clients.Round you there are some queer birds, you do not know them, but dimly remember the outlines of person, it is Frederic, he works as a bouncer in the bar of Tuts, all other remembering is impossible. you open the last Kit-Kat, killing taste of beer, a little but he passes. truing to get up, moving to the street and stand frozen. Straight on you the first ray of light shining, getting up on the action station of a sun, here all spoiling instantly. Crisp air penetrates to the threads, 5.30 morning. All cabs already dead, and money not especially.

Hello England