Ingvar woke up from the bright morning sun. I went to the garden, to the barrels, where on the delicate green grass I poured water from my head to toe, charged with the coolness of the night; passed in the garden and narwhal greens for breakfast, simultaneously drying in the sun from a light, slightly noticeable breeze. The body was delighted, breathing, a smile appeared on his hitherto sleepy face. Around was already boiling life, butterflies and flies were flying,
Birds sang in the garden and around, not nightingales - they sing at sunset from birch groves and rakita bushes, they sang as best they could, but on the other hand the orchestra. After breakfast outside, in the shade of the vineyard, Ingvar put on a wide linen shirt, gathered long, wet hair into a bun, cut his beard from a muddy chest of drawers, took a slice of homemade bread, a jug of fresh milk, glanced at the dark icons in the corner and went to the farm. On the farm, where large, strong carcasses of selected servers stood in a row on both sides of the long wide aisle in elongated one-story buildings, they mined a crypt, chewed passwords to foreign mailboxes and discarded heaps of spam by the evening, so that in the evening they would give the cherished letters to the host numbers and meanings, so necessary for the continuation of this unnatural, this deterministic life, the flow that Ingvar forced to work without weekends and holidays, in shifts, not allowing it to interrupt its rhythm, or even abandon l for the sake of a distant, unknown, unpopular and backward life, which once lived all previous generations of his fathers and grandfathers ... All these thousands of unknown people to him, this soil, on which he ascended and from which he happily, with confidence in his righteousness wanted so sincerely to come off. Will it work out? But how! Already it turns out ...