“Some strange old beggar... I asked him to come inside, but he refused.”
Hryhoriy was struck by a headwind, it tore at his coat flaps, strewed snow into his eyes. And the world melted, disappearing in a white whirlwind. He was all alone! Br‑r‑r... It was frightening, creepy... But then it was better this way. He was free. He could go where he pleased. But which road should he take, which street? Where was Pereyaslav? It had disappeared. He had intercepted it and lost everything now… What an endless snowstorm! An uncontrollable white wind and black snow... Or perhaps it was merely night, broken into countless black splinters…
Or day. Yesterday’s. No, possibly tomorrow’s. It was better to shred the future – the pain was far worse. The past was easier to shred and easier to piece together…
