Lately, I have developed a strange ability to find places of a peculiar character for me to live in. These places happen to exist as if on the border between two worlds. Be it an apartment or a private house, it would be located in a village, while the village, in its turn, would be located in the middle of a booming city. I revel in the hustle and bustle of traffic and concrete and bright city signs. And then I huddle in the quiet of my village, just a few steps away.
Find the country, where I decided to stop, find the city that I’ve chosen and then, if you manage to get to the bottom of this matryoshka, you will find my heart. And if you see one beating among aged trees and crooked little houses, be sure that this heart belongs to me.
Here in Kiev, I have found one such place. I go along a crowded street, I make a turn and suddenly I am in the middle of a street known to few who lives on it. With each step, it gets quieter. There are more houses now than people, around me. Fat cats watch me from the fences, tree branches, benches, window sills. In autumn, I smell a bitter sweet smell of burning leaves. In winter, I hear a group of old ladies singing old, almost forgotten songs, behind the window of another village house, under a crooked apple tree.