...They're shooting Finding t.A.T.u. episodes at the abandoned brewery plant named after Badaev...

... It is a huge territory with an empty square of half Red Square size covered with broken asphalt. Around this square there are gloomy desolate buildings of various sizes and styles that were built in different times within a spread of one hundred years. The glass in many windows is broken out or fallen out because of age, the stucco is gone, the remaining paint faded away. Several chafed tank-cars with what is left of "Badaev's Beer" signs grew into the ground and turned into the weed reserve; their line reminds naïve people that there's no beer here and it's not expected that there will ever be...

...On top floors of one of the plant's buildings a set for Ivan's apartment was built. The roof, where his apartment leads, is one big terrace with scarlet tents, soft couches and Moscow view. This is a loft of old rocker and m'fucker, the leader of Moscow punks and unrecognized artists. Mystic meetings, secret orgies and ordinary booze parties (depending on the participants) take place here. Some restless personalities spend days and even weeks at Ivan's place sleeping on the floor and eating feast's leftovers...

...But this house I know very well. It's in excellent condition. Man, this is almost my own house, but it looks different, resembling a mini-copy of Overlook Hotel in "The Shining" movie. There's a joyful bustle inside: many people and everybody's getting ready to a big celebration. Waiters, cookees, some women, unfamiliar and fat, running, carrying plates, pots, cutting vegetables, pouring something in the glasses... In the evening there will be guests, lots of guests.

I can't say I don't like it, but I'm sick of this hustle and bustle.

Tender July day outside. Nice warm silence is diluted with birds' twitter and the sound of flying dragonflies.

I don't give a shit about all these preparations, I'm walking around the house and looking at it's familiar parts: here's the door to the bedroom section, and this door leads to the kitchen right from the street, and here is garage gate... My three-year-old daughter staggers beside me, holding my hand... She's busy with her own thoughts and doesn't bug me with her usual never-ceasing chat.

We wandered in a remote part of the area - and I freezed.

It's strange that I, who've lived in the house for more than ten years, don't recognize this part and can't remember that I ever entered this door. Moreover, I can't even imagine where this door leads. Kinda scary... oh, what the hell.

I lift the girl up on shoulder, holding her with one hand, and go seven steps down, like it's a basement entrance.

The time-worn door, with rusty tin on the surface; it's style doesn't resemble that of the whole house. There are no signs of handles or locks on the door, and along the perimeter of the door there's a cotton seal upholstered with leather-imitation cloth. If the door isn't stuck due to no exploitation, then I easily open it. Having put my palm on the place where doors have handles, I started to push with the increasing pressure. The door didn't surrender, but I got more frightened, the heart went faster. I pushed more and suddenly - p-f-f-f-f-f-f. The door opened, letting the air into my face - warm and a bit humid air with a slightly sweet basement smell.

Danger anticipation yielded to my curiosity. I leaned a little so that the girl, who silently sat on my shoulders, didn't hit the door pillar, and made one, just one step from the sunny day into the darkness...

To be continued.