Last night Ира and I were sitting on a bench in Pushkin Square, talking and drinking a cans of fruity god-knows-what from the kiosk. A few benches away there was a severely drugged-up teenager staring intently at us, speaking at a mile a minute, and fidgeting with a decent-sized paintbrush. Ира finally got irritated and asked him what the hell he wanted. He was painting my psychological portrait. It's a picture of a baby Siamese cat. (?)