In 1967, Krach Myshlov visited his daughter, passed through the town of Sleep, and stayed in a hotel. A field of poppies was blooming in front of the hotel. The next day, the cleaner found Meshlov dead next to his desk.
Twenty years ago, the poet Mikhail Myshlov was found dead in a hotel in Sleepy Town of an overdose of aminophylline. In the same space at different times, the father and son died in such a tacit understanding.
Things change, but the poppy flower remains blooming.
The red is blood, the white is fat, and the yellow is bile. Bit by bit, smile to the spring breeze.