Theory of the Dead World

Viktor damn it Gromov sat, sprawled in a chair like clientele at abortion clinics. He thought about the fact that for the first time in his life he was sober at such a late hour, like midwives during childbirth. "I... should drink for this," he grimly thought, taking a bottle of brandy from the table. Gromov poured himself a glass and took a swig from the neck. He didn't try to embalm his pain, which actually wasn't there. He was burning through his life, which they would say doesn’t exist.
Viktor shyly glanced around. On one of the walls of the penthouse atop the Gromov Building hung a portrait of Joseph Djugashvili. Gromov stared intently into its empty eyes, thinking about the man who dared to hang this idiocy on his refined rococo. He took the glass filled with brandy and hurled it straight at the target - the portrait fell from the wall with the characteristic sound of breaking glass.