I look up, into the house going up with snow-white walls, balconies and ledges, which are wrapped in the greenery of trees, brown tiles, a minimum of corners and sharp edges, it seems that the whole city is woven from clouds.

Trist stands nearby, unlike me, his gaze wanders over the faces of passers-by, he is busy with his favorite thing - he “reads” those around him, he just needs to look, go over a superficial glance to understand a lot. I don’t know how, emotions or thoughts interfere with me. So he, at least, told me once. And his hand, it's on my shoulder, holding me in place.

Yes,...