“I succeeded!” thought the programmer Stepanov, waking up from a terrible stench in the mouth, a sore head and heaviness on the soul. Weary the soul episodes from yesterday’s biography. The soul suffered from two liters of white with two colleagues, Crombacher on the way home, two Tuborgs waiting for a taxi, a check-up with a taxi driver and a cheap silk called cognac and five proud stars on the label under a canned cherry tomato with two types, whose names were left along with an empty bottle near
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