Guitar

— Blood type on the sleeve! Gorshenev shouted, sitting on a bench. — My serial number is on the sleeve! Andrey, to be honest, has already been fed up with these screams, even with all due respect to Viktor Tsoi and his work. Mikha shouted his songs on endless repetition, one of his own, which they wrote with Shurik and some other groups. Knyazev doesn't really fumble for rock, but he knows something about it. I even went to a concert in the Gaza Strip once. He liked it, and he stole the beer under the guise. Gorshenev has already started playing "The Last Hero", and Andrey still won't polish his glass. Watching the guy, listening to his game. He plays beautifully, although he does not really know how, flashes his toothless smile when coins are thrown into his case. With the Prince they have a relationship, to be honest, so-so. Sometimes Andrey pushes beer, and Misha carries stolen flowers for him for this. The chords changed abruptly. — Acquired immunodeficiency syndrome! — the Pot shouted in one breath. Andrey just grinned, putting the glass back in its place. He had heard this song a hundred times already, but every time, as for the first time, it was very funny. And Mikha sang these lines so expressively, as if he were singing a play. Micah was generally strange, not like everyone else. He was special. He loved punk rock, he has a little more and his own band, look, will appear. And he's also stupidly handsome. That toothless smile of his, disheveled, dark hair like a siskin. Andrey liked him. And Misha liked Dyukha. He really didn't know what. He was also handsome, talented, so he writes all sorts of poems and draws beautifully. Mishka once even suggested that he write a poem about Sid Vicious himself, and Dyukha wrote it. And Gorshenev, as he found out, began to glow in other people's flower beds, climbed for flowers. He received, of course, notably. But then, now he has a verse about Sid. A new song began, new chords. Already something melodious, the music flowed like a trickle, so gently, smoothly, beautifully. Some kind of waltz. It's definitely a waltz, like, even from a music book. Stop, this waltz was in Knyazev’s notebook! — Micah!