in a sticky June day he is like a sip of cold water. here, in a city without a name, his voice sounds among the rustling of leaves - rough and quiet - and in the glare of the sun on the wet asphalt the radiance of his eyes seems to appear. my head is spinning. today it is too hot: after the night rain the asphalt warms up to the temperature of the surface of a star, and the air smells of earth, wet leaves... Loneliness. From wonderful Nia!