You flip through days — behind them people, and somewhere far off,

You flip through days — behind them people, and somewhere far off, like a hive lives stirred up, in a moment dreams cut short. And with the flare of dawn a siren drawn-out wails from the inside: because behind you there's only litres of wine, not a stake, not a yard, no life! no personal space. one thing on your mind — to save one more, to not let it happen ahead of time, the leaving of this cynical world. The siren howls, there's no room for emotion and badly blurred are the borders of the game. Again and again he races toward the shot, a knight without an order, a herald of fate. Where is that thin line that divides the worlds of white light and the pull of black gloom?