I’m tired - there was always somebody who tried to tell me who is Eduard Limonov. The same thing now, a fifty years old, mustached, sturdy-complexioned representative of the intern agencies. “Don’t you understand that he’s a CIA agent?”
Stop. All of this began a little earlier.
The back seat of a “Volga”, the head below the knees, the left hand squeezed by my own body, a bracelet is snapped on the right. Blows are pouring on the head and the kidneys. (more…)