About

Shereshevsky's old city is a state of consciousness. A psychedelic immersion in the flesh of time, which no longer flows but moves. There is no history here. There is only an echo. Hoarse, drunk, loved to the point of convulsions.
The houses are like small romantic nests, but no idyll. These are buildings for those who survive, still capable of dreaming of the past. The houses are old, like the lungs of a smoker, their walls are not plaster, but skin that sighs when you touch it with your gaze. They tremble, pulsate with light, multi-colored spots. And they glow. Their flesh is fleshy, …