It's evening. Fabulously beautiful, mysterious, alluring evening of January. On the street there are no burning Siberian frosts, about seven degrees with a minus sign, but after yesterday's decline to thirty-two, it seems warm. The window of my apartment overlooks a busy road, but the cars on it now go not often. The January holidays have not yet fully died down, and the work will make people fuss about a week later. There is still a week of silence, peace, beautiful weather with drizzling large flakes of snow.
