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[Alexandr Korol]

already see this. And this dream — it feels like reality. It is not a dream, but like a memory. As if I clearly remember that I was at this place with my ex-girlfriend. I can almost precisely describe what I was talking about with her there. But the paradox is different: it never happened. I have no photographs from that place. If I were to contact the ex-girlfriend I was with back then, she would tell me that we were not there. What is this? But now it becomes even more interesting. But today, I have another dream. I am in an apartment. I have many grandmothers and grandfathers, and this is in one of the apartments where my grandmother and grandfather live. I am on the landing — so I am walking up to their place to go inside — and on the landing across from them a door opens, and a young boy says to me:

— Yo-yo.
— Hey!, — I say.
— I know you. You’re like some cool famous writer.

Exactly in that way of speaking, like I’m really famous. And I think to myself, that’s strange — because in the reality where I live now, people don’t like me. Why then, in that place, am I considered famous by some ordinary guy living on the outskirts, in some little apartment, and he knows me? And I say to him:

— Listen, maybe we should exchange numbers?
— Yeah, sure!

And he shows me completely different books, or pamphlets of my books. And he says:

— I read this book, and this one too.
— But those aren’t my books.
— What do you mean not yours? They are yours.

So he says he has read many of my books, and we exchange phone numbers. But again, it all happens like reality. Like reality, not like a dream.