"Попробуй спеть вместе со мной, Вставай рядом со мной. Попробуй спеть вместе со мной, Вставай рядом со мной!"

November 6, 1988—

"Di—di—di—di—disco, let's have a pa—pa—pa—pa—party... Bouncing and moving to the synthesizer sounds, or—um.. shaking my hips to the jingle-jangle guitar riffs.. Men lusting after men, wearing the short skirts they want. But the next morning, my crotch has already pitched a tent!"

It was reform, and in other words, it was debauchery. He shakes his hips and pelvis to the electronic sounds without a care in the world, snorting salt and sucking off men. That was his night and his physical dream—another word for an unrealistic reality. The disco ball seemed to shine even on his red lips—because he wore lipstick! Because we were blinded by that flashing light, we didn't think about the future. What mattered were the men with back-combed hair, lips painted red like women's, eyelids painted with the essence of their nights, wearing unnecessary, primal tops and tight pants. They were the ones who would vulgarly decorate the end of the closing century, the center of this reform, and a part of the disco-synthesizer. Let's decorate this dissolute century to their rhythm. Finally.. my step is—

"What a f—cking, f—cking morning.. That goddamn sun.."

He wanted to shoot his yesterday-self and make him suffer, but today was the day his yesterday-self died peacefully. What did he enjoy yesterday? Ah, excluding the men, there are too many. —Since it was his primal instinct, it must have been a most vulgar shame.— There is no night sun hanging in this communal apartment (kommunalka). This place was no different from a night of disco explosion. He hated himself as he crawled out of his bed, dragging his wobbly legs, but in a way, he might get excited by this erotic and submissive appearance and use his hand as a man from the morning.

"F—ck! F—ck!"

He shouted with a phlegmy throat as if he wanted everyone in the communal apartment to hear. Yesterday he cried like a broad—an unconscious derogatory expression..—but today he groans like a man.

My head is spinning! Is it because I played baseball with my old man's ashes last winter? The old man's soul is.. tearing apart this.. damn body.. Shit.. Even in death, he's a man of no help at all.

The—the—the—the—tinnitus is ri—ri—ri—ri—ringing.. It makes me su—u—uffer. Beep, beep—beep, beep. Buzz—ing. Buzz—ing.. Stabbing my right eye, stabbing my left eye. It's because I looked at the disco ball too much ye—ye—ye—yesterday. The light, f—ck! The light! It stabs my eyes!

The room is such a mess, even though he didn't have a party in the room! There's a table made of that birch or whatever.. anyway, that pale wood, and it's so stained that the white background has turned a darkish color. One day he even vomited on that table, so you could tell how much of a mess he'd made. It might be due to the yellowish lighting in this room, but this place felt like the inside of someone's stomach! And he and we are being dissolved by the stomach acid in that stomach! From. From. From. From. From feet to head!

At the end of his gaze was a kitchen with a small burner, an oven, and a cupboard. —It seemed he hadn't used those since he moved in here.— In that cupboard, there would surely be records of groups made by bandmen who lead this era and lead young people into pleasure. In a normal cupboard, there should be cups and porcelain dishes, but this young man living a dissolute life, though he had the confidence to act out an ideal female image, was a typical aesthetic person who couldn't even follow the heels of such women. His ability to maintain a household was no different from a dishcloth he had chewed up. He invested almost all the money he earned into bands and luxury, but the sad part was that he acted like a patron from an artist's perspective. They say there's no need to worry since these kinds of young people are on the rise these days—but who knows! This motherland doesn't particularly like lazy artists. Some bandman ended up working as an apartment boiler technician, holding a microphone and a shovel at the same time.

Ci—ci—ci—ci—cigarettes. Lucky—Strike is! Better!

This stutterer's voice is getting annoying. It was his paranoid and ugly true heart and another ideal, but no man liked a person with a stutter.

That slender and pathetically gorgeously decorated hand turns on the gas burner. The blue gas flame looked blue like yesterday's disco heat, and sometimes yellow or red things were seen. Disco parties, fire, human relationships, and life were, in a way, no different. As many poets have sung, life is something that burns at once and slowly dies, and a disco party also leaves only the place once the song is over. He was living among these numerous fires.

Refuge in smoke arrives. The fire at the tip.. and with a single breath, a peace treaty is now signed.

"You know, 'Aquarium' (Аквариум) is no good.. It's artistic, but no good. The Ra—Radio.. Africa (Радио Африка) album is stupid.. But, but.. 'Kino' (Кино) is the best. 'Head of Kamchatka' (Начальник Камчатки) and 'Night' (Ночи) were the best albums, of—course, they were so 'Duran Duran'-esque.."

There are more al—al—al—bums. 'Alyans' (альянс)? 'Forum' (Форум)? Or— no, there's 'DDT' (ДДТ) too.. —DDT is.. a di—di—different genre, but..— 'Electroclub' (Электроклуб) is totally good!

"We are sinking even though we already know where the shallows are.. Everyone looks at the ceiling with hopeful eyes. In the trolleybus going east, in the trolleybus going.. east..!"

He stood up and hummed a song, his body also moving wobbly—of course, he just looked like a drunkard who was about to vomit right away—and looked into the mirror with very arrogant movements that didn't even suit the theme. Cigarette smoke circled around his face like a ribbon.

I want to go out. To dress up and go out, putting red paint on my cheeks and red lipstick like a national flag on my lips.. circling my eyes in black and then applying bright blue things like the Neva River on my eyelids. Let's wear a shirt with blue stripes on a yellow background and the skirt I like. Then I'll wrap myself in a teal jacket, put on those cheap shoes as soft as velvet, walk like a woman, and kick all the cans near the house. Then I'll laugh happily and...

A tapping knock is heard. It was more than enough to cut off the young man's contemplation.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray next to the desk and declared to someone beyond the door.

"I'm—I'm coming out! Do you think there's no one inside? Good grief, I don't know who it is, but.. your attitude is just, strange—..like a pig!"