Non-Russians were asking if I care for a ride in their gray terrible-looking stinking cars. Others were looking at my clothes, estimating the content of my pockets.
Trolleybus cables, with icicles, dropped down by the passing vehicles, were hanging over the carved road with filthy cars jumping over them and tram rails in the last struggle to save their tyres from being punctured by the sharp edges.
As I hurried down the street, turning into the courtyard, I saw a garbage hill, smelling and looking terrible, with the paper ad above it, presenting some opportunities for the illegal activities.
I rushed further and slipped on the ice, which was covering the yard because of the pipe malfunction.
In my last struggle, I jumped over the smoking puddle into the dirty, pissed porch.
I closed my eyes, praying to get to the required floor in this painted elevator with flashing light, casting mysterious shadows on the floor and thought – what year is it? Is it 90s?