When you walking around the street you can hear your steps. Your shoes slowly stepping on broken road,  rustle of small stones and pieces of asphalt, which was shifted three times in two years,  touches to the shadows of old trees.  Somewhere in the other side of the city trains are whistling. Almost none of them is stopping here – «attention, attention the train from Orel to Moscow is going without the stop». The train is going on the second track. 

Three railway tracks divide the city on two parts – one with more or less new nine-flors buildings, colorful advertisements of Belorussian hosiery, small shops of beer and sweets and nothing to do. On the other side were so called «old town», as old as could be the city founded just before the  second world war.  Half of the city lives in the three-floor houses, builded by German war-prisoners.  Now light of lanterns shows the writing on the walls: “Russia is for Russian”.

Khroom, khroom, khroom, the steps are continue to tear apart astringent silence of the city. A lonely dog is barking somewhere behind –  very far away, the wind is taking the sounds down to the other side, like a stupid lonely animal was  barking in another world. Or may be just in the past.