Russia in the 1930s. Winter. Poverty. Famine. It's freezing cold. A poorly dressed kid is running across a courtyard with an armful of deadwood, followed by an angry caretaker.
The kid is running and thinking to himself:
>I gotta put an end to this. After all, I come from a nice family, I want to learn, to self-develop. I want to be like my favourite author — Ernest Hemingway — strong and masculine, fishing on the Cuban beaches, not running away from caretakers.
Cuba. It's hot as hell. Ernest Hemingway — strong and masculine, is sitting at a beach, drinking rum straight from the bottle, surrounded by hot Cuban girls. He's thinking:
> This isn't life. Nothing heroic about it. People don't need anything, it's hot 24 hours a day, brain is melting, women are fat and sweaty. I'd rather be in cool Paris with my friend — André Maurois — drinking some nice French wine in front of a fireplace, talking about the purpose of life...
Paris. The air is cool, it's been raining for a week now. André Maurois is sitting in his apartment finishing his third bottle of cognac. Two French girls are sleeping in the bed. Maurois curses and thinks:
> This isn't life. This is decadence. A simulacrum. I'd rather be in cold Russia with my friend Andrei Platonov. We'd drink a glass of real Russian vodka and be closer to the Eternity. Now *that's* life!
Russia. Winter. Freezing cold. Famine. Andrei Platonov is running across the courtyard after a kid and is thinking:
> Fuck! If I catch the little bastard, I'll kill him!
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