upon a time brodsky said: “varyuga to me, bloodsucker, they say , to hell with them schubais, beryuzovskysons, but there is no gulag, the terrible stalin and his mustache, funnels don’t come and they don’t torture in dungeons, it would seem logical, but life, as always, has justified the history of the fatherland , its statists were refuted by the stupid intellectual nonsense, what is varyuga, varyuga is the lives of thousands of soldiers who, at the right moment, find themselves without uniforms, without communications, without helmets, without armor, without fuel; they are killed in the thousands, while a high-ranking officer lowers his gear. manicured hands behind shrimp in flour batter, pouring the fat with sizzling champagne. varyuga is a pensioner dying of diabetes, until the chief doctor, having taken a kickback for the equipment, filled with his own greatness, with expensive cognac, smells his daughter’s fiancé, secretly about him... dreaming, for where there is a varyuga, there is always a homosexual, why? and he thinks he’s superior to others, he’s supposed to be special, but now