The authors of the almanac boldly work with plots and collisions, with metaphors and allegories, with the very form of the text, with its rhythm, with its breath. There is grotesque, irony, philosophy, and lyricism here. Other planets and exotic islands flash here, and very close by are quite recognizable, purely earthly landscapes... There is everything here to prove that fantasy has not gotten lost in the three pines of primitive plots, that Cinderella is still alive and preparing for new achievements.

“Silence... There is only the silent, disorderly pulsation of a small lump of hot plasma - this is the soul, here is my everything. Here are the fears and doubts that befell me in my mother’s womb and the daring cry that crowns the first timid breath of earthly air. Here is a boy from the next desk, who insulted me to tears and pulled my pigtail. Here is an old umbrella, forgotten in a hammock swaying in the wind. Here is love, no, not the first love, not the only one, but simply love, filling with a shining abyss of enthusiasm to the brim, to drunken bliss, to redemption... And here is the gallery of the memory of touches: the prickly needles of the Christmas tree and the burning strong coffee on the lips, the icy steel of the impetuous white blizzard and the warmth of the long-yellowed pages of Blok’s volume, the elastic keys of the harmonious nature of the old German piano and the moist coolness of the palms I adore... And there are also people, people, people..." (Olga Natsarenus.)