IT IS NORMAL, MORITZ

I feel good, I feel really good, it is night, the stars are shining brightly above. It is crispy cold, but all kinds of alcohol make me feel happy. We are walking around the streets of inner Moscow. We are joking, laughing, enjoying our happiness, our health, our youth, our being. We reach the metro station. You can’t overlook him, it. It is a bundle of lumps, with a piece of human inside. It smells of foul flesh, shit and alcohol. The man could be sleeping, but it is icy cold and his body seems to be frozen in an awkward position. Maybe he is already dead, surely he will be dead by the beginning of the next day. I look into the face of my friend, Oleg. It is red from the cold, his eyes helpless.

"You will get used to it, if you live here a while longer. Look, it is normal." We walk on.

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