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[Alexandr Korol]

But me — I’m just sitting here, reading about Saint Petersburg on Wikipedia, and believing in keys to paradise — and what’s so forbidden or criminal about that? This is my native Saint Petersburg. I’m an Orthodox Christian. What’s wrong with that? Let’s put it this way. All of this is information taken from our human world — I didn’t invent any of it. But honestly, isn’t it better to spend evenings writing than doing what those boys were doing back then — watching questionable erotic videos alone in the bathroom? There you go. But somehow society decided they were the normal ones, and I was the fool. So, what they did in the evenings — that’s considered fine now, I guess. But me writing books in the evenings — that makes me weird and in need of saving. Fine. Just like when I was younger, I used to hear all these stupid remarks from every corner, and to this day nothing has changed. So let’s be clear: why does it even bother them so much? I’m not going around accusing people, pointing fingers at how “wrong” they are. So why are they so agitated? I’m not bothering anyone — just writing my books — yet everyone gets so upset. And in different ways — either I’m the bad guy, or I’m in trouble and need to be rescued. Why is your life so boring that my books get under your skin so much? It’s very curious. So, what kind of friends were those? Well, whenever I’d go inward, into my “corridors,” writing books and creating — creative people, the quiet nerdy types, would naturally surround me. But when, for some reason, my creative inspiration would fade and I’d fall into the socially-material world — and there are different kinds of that world: some decent people who are settled and unique in their own way, and then there are the “lost ones” — I always seemed to cross paths with those “lost ones” during such times. They were always some kind of temptation or provocation for me — as if their whole role in life was to tempt and provoke. And for some reason, I would always end up around such people whenever I grew tired of writing. They’d stain me, shame me, judge me — and then I’d return to the “cosmos” and go back to writing. And just like they always threw dirt at everyone when I wasn’t around, they’d start on me the moment I reappeared. That’s just how they are. Well, again, I could have avoided seeing them, but for some reason I was curious about all worlds. Unlike them, I’m not so categorical — I believe all worlds should be accepted. I’ve been in the world of interesting, defined individuals: some were doctors, some engineers, some lived this way, some that way. And then there were these show-offs who always commented on everything, evaluated what