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July on the outcome, early morning. The rays of the sun are no longer so generously poured the earth, and unwittingly spishes the heart with the thought of the flow of summer. Senokos departed, sisaya Rye blew and faded. People open windows, admire the pristine freshness of the morning, and this moment of their rapid equipment is beautiful in its own way. A woken day again takes power to all, above life and death. This is a momentous moment when millions of human souls, awakening, go from realities sleep for daytime delusions.
In a bright spacious rustic house, the clock arrow approaches four. Sleepy breathing comes from both beds. One of them stands to the right of the door, the owner of a house, sullen, harsh, bald, made by old age, sleeps on it under the fifth blanket. His headboard - a window, fascinated by the binding of six squares, on the windowsill - a pot of flowers, glasses and a psalter. For many years they rest on the same place, basking in the morning in the rays of the sun. In the far dark corner - the bed of old women. Some of them remained in this house, together live their century. Even in the air itself at home there is a smell of old age, strange and attractive in its own way. Walls, frames, platbands fumbled, the cracks and gaps appeared on them were in a strange drawing.
