I’d spent the previous night, like every other night that summer, on two soft armchairs put together to form a comfortable and even spacious (for my little eight year old body) sleeping place. Before going to bed, I always watched the Vremya broadcast: as the minute hand neared the ‘9:00’ mark, the alarming music started to play, the map of Russia flew in front of our eyes for some reason, and then the newscasters appeared. I listened to the news about the construction of another thermal power station and the record harvest, glancing from time to time at the screen that was glimmering away in the dark. The troubled voices of the newscasters gradually calmed down, turning into a vague babble. Under the subdued murmur of the news stream about the decline of the Soviet Union, I slowly fell into a sweet slumber.