So life finished. Though how was it to finish there.
Alyosha Barcelona - Moscow, 2007
How he reached Moscow from Barcelona, he can’t remember any more. Which airport, where he flew to there, how he reached it, how the stewardesses shied away from him, how much he rushed about without reason along the Ramblas, along the Ramblas flying at tourists, this by the way beforehand. In Boqueria the fish looked at him intently with hatred and some crab from the counter grabbed him his claws at the side. Gaudi calamari in a trembling batter destroyed prawns, seven hours remained until the aeroplane, it had to be them . . .something had to be done with them. He didn’t drink. Nothing else . . .no, there was nothing else also. Then these clocks in the airport, just here it was enough for him, Italian
