Abstract

Anton, thirty-two,his profile indicates that he lives with his parents.He's Orthodox, though he never went to church,has a university degree, studied English.He worked as a tattoo artist and had his own style,if you can say that of a tattoo artist.Many locals felthis skillful hands and sharp needle.When it all began, he talked a lotabout politics and history, started attending the demonstrations,picked quarrels with his friends.Friends felt insulted, clients started disappearing.They were afraid, didn't understand, left the city.You feel a person best when you touch him with a needle.A needle stings, a needle sutures. Under its warmmetal you sense the complaisant canvas of women'sskin and the light rigid tarpaulinof men's skin. You penetrate someone'smembrane, you let velvetdrops of blood out of the body, you pierce and pierce and pierceangels’ wings onto the obedient surface of the world.You, tattoo artist, pierce and pierce tattoos, for we are calledto fill this world with sense, fill itwith colors. You, tattoo artist, you pierce thiscover onto our souls and diseases—what we live for and what we die for.Someone told me he was shot at a roadblock,in the morning, he was armed, it happened very quickly—no one really knows what happened.He's buried in a mass grave—they're all buried this way.His personal belongings were returned to his parents.No one has even made any changes to his profile.The time will come when some assholewill write heroic poems about this.The time will come when some assholewill say it's impossible to write about it at all.