Branches cling to the bluish sky, the sun has leaked over the horizon, clouds have engulfed space, like alien wanderers.

I stand at the door of the store, look at the reality around and become sadder from what is happening ...

The siren rushed by in a car, the darkness is coming on the world, the guys are talking, shaved as if something has deprived them of something, without hats and in typical of their muscles, pumped up and stretched like a bowstring. What have I lost here? With me is a white bag and a little sweet, and bread, dark night. It’s getting colder, a woman comes out of the store shuffling her feet, her life path is almost completed, her hair is white and undyed, she stops, bends over a rolling apple, catches a hard ball with weak old hands and quickly puts it in a white bag. Two women are walking, one opens the door in front of the other, lets them in, doves coo about household chores. Your teenagers, one separated and went his own way, others to the right. A girl in a dark jacket flashed her glasses, and someone waves her bag, it’s easier, looks at the lights and signs, looks at the world, not surprised, but tense. A blonde with a soft checkered scarf draped over a black jacket walks by, not to the store, but ... A man comes out quickly and sharply, knocks on the door frame, he runs to the bus stop, will he have time? Or maybe my life has gone as a bus?.. People come out, men and women, children, a teenager, a woman in a bright pink jacket, like a Barbie doll, probably pretending to be someone. Who is she? She lives next to me and I haven’t seen her before ... A man in a black jacket walks past, opens the door, lets the old man through and enters, a boy follows him, two are waiting for one, someone was lost in the store, they didn’t find it, they called back, it’s busy.

And the world slams like a door, many voices, hands, heads, everything is in the cycle, all this is life.

The thick fingers of a woman in a silver poncho touched the long thin handle of the door, her hat turned a little in my direction, but she went on and opened the second door and I slipped into the golden passage. A shop, a lot of people, chains of lines, groceries and black baskets...

The worker collects hundreds of plastic baskets into the black tower, carries them, stumbles, goes around the handrail and puts them in front of the entrance, where people enter. The man opened the door, slammed it sharply, entered, cold and warm met, but the frost did not enter the store, he remained outside, warmth and stuffiness did not let him inside ...

A small room, but if... But no, it doesn't happen. Once a large store called "sporting goods". Then they sold there, carpets, mobile phones, pencils and pens, there were everything. They made delicious salads, had their own cuisine, soup, boiled rice ... But then, gradually, the store turned into a red eye, it became like everyone else, where they sell goods at low prices. Red like blood was the brand color of the store, perhaps it is a symbol of the blood of sellers or those who come there? Maybe? High turnover of staff and many do not stand up. The store is like a whirlpool absorbing their energy.

Once I bought my first professional white pencils. Then there was a sale and they cost 40% cheaper. There were three pencils in the package, I still have one of them. In art school, they only taught me pencil shading. Now I can do much more, I write with wax pencils, mix ink, acrylic and pencil, draw with sanguine. The saleswoman who then sold me the pencils had a short haircut and funny bangs, they wore uniforms like in the old days, and she had a burgundy apron with large pockets, it was sheathed with white braid, sometimes I thought that their uniform was going to school, sometimes I laughed at this. Now it is history and lives in my memories. Sometimes I ask myself: Where is this saleswoman? Is she alive? I have not seen her work after that in another store. She was, as it were, this old world itself, an attribute of what was gone.

The lights on the street are getting brighter, the sky is gradually darkening.

I'm leaving without having bought here what I was looking for, the years have passed me by people, and everything became like dust, everything crumbled and turned to ashes.

And only outside the window are the lights of yellow lanterns and the cold of the streets, an unbearable thirst for knowledge and many souls lost on the pavement.

My throat burns when I come home, I walked down the street for too long, I looked for an unnecessary thing for too long, I can buy chicken tomorrow.

A holiday is a couple of weekends and a simple snowfall on the tongue, nothing more and no one, everything becomes darkness.

I drink spicy cinnamon tea and the steam burns my fingers as I blow cool the liquid in the aluminum spoon.

Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator, writer. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.

The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. Her work was published in the journals "Gypsophila", "Harpy Hybrid review" and others.

Links to my social networks:

https://instagram.com/irina369tall?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=

https://m.facebook.com/profile.php?v=photos&lst=100009868569…

https://www.instagram.com/irinanov4155/?hl=ru