Author Felix Maksimov possesses an unparalleled talent, one of those who are called word wizards. At first glance, the stories collected here are merely sketches, impressions of individual episodes of life. However, they linger in the memory like prophetic dreams and revelations. This book defies easy categorization. Memories? Not quite. Magical realism? Partly. These texts contain an irresistible, enchanting magic: it can be bright, sad, funny, or eerie... No one writes quite like Felix Maksimov.

From the author: I was born in 1976 in Moscow, in Presnya, and have lived my life here. I write letters.

My sketches of childhood are not the truth. They are echoes, running watercolor, a jug made of shards found in an excavation, the face of a person reconstructed from skeletal remains. Not a work, but a trial; not music, but the tuning of an orchestra before a concert. I have always loved that sound, the promise, the anticipation. An attempt to reach childhood—since the attempt to escape failed.

I have changed the names of everyone except my deceased relatives. Memories from different years are pieced together from scraps and fragments in the year when the war began. That version of me is gone, and so is the one writing this now.