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Kazhdyi prozhityi den', kazhdoe mgnovenie, dazhe kogda na nas ne padayut rakety, i my ne glyadim v pritsel avtomata, my vsyo ravno oshchushchaem na sebe smradnoe dykhanie voiny - otbleski pozharishch, ekho artilleriiskoi kanonady, stony ranenykh, poslednii vzdykh umirayushchego, zapakh gari ot razrushennykh zhilishch i tlena ot myortvykh tel. I ochen' redko sredi etogo koshmara obrashchaem vnimanie na laskovoe dunovenie mirnogo veterka, slyshim penie utrennikh ptits, raduemsya zapakhu svezhego khleba iz blizhaishei pekarni, besprichinno ulybaemsya neznakomtzu... A ved' etogo khochetsya - vsem bez isklyucheniya, i pravym, i vinovatym! No, uvy, ne do etogo nam segodnya. My mrachno otvorachivaemsya i obrechyonno glyadim v storonu, s trudom vytaskivaya sebya iz moroka voiny. Esli udaiotsya. Postepenno privykaem k etomu sostoyaniyu...Chto, lyudi, s nami proiskhodit? Pochemu my takie?!

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