I often look at the profiles of different women on social networks. Acquaintances, few acquaintances, strangers at all. Exactly, as in life, here it is clearly visible that among us no two are alike. And thank God. Awareness of your own uniqueness greatly straightens your shoulders and adds strength. It’s interesting for me to watch the women here. There are some that I can very clearly imagine. They appear through the small details of their life - their way of life, what they love, their morning, their food, their men, their children, their plans. I know what their figures are, where they go, with whom they drink coffee and wine, how they lie on the beach. Of course this is the dotted line of life. There is a lot behind the scenes that you can fantasize about, but much of what I see evokes feelings. I am openly happy for someone’s children; I am fascinated and a little envious of the places where others vacation; I get annoyed with someone and get offended by the fact that he likes to like my photos and ignore my professional projects. Then I remember that I often do this too - sometimes for competitive reasons, sometimes because the philosophy or ethics of this person is not close to me, but I like the dress or face. There are those that generously present themselves and openly catch you. I listen to their thoughts, feel their energy, come into contact with something deep, sometimes close and therefore so attractive, and sometimes not at all clear, and this is also quite alluring. There are those who hide themselves behind their collections, presenting themselves only through someone’s texts, through someone’s pictures. This is what it looks like. You go into their house, you know that the person is somewhere here, in one of the rooms, sometimes he even says something. But he doesn’t come out, he just talks, he lets you go and look. There are no other people. And you walk carefully, you see everything around you that is overseas and imported. Someone's paintings, someone's books. You even touch something and read it. You can only guess how a person lives, judging by his taste, by what is around him. But the man himself never appears. In such houses, I am always a little annoyed that there is not enough person. But I know well, and from personal experience, that what appears can be alarming, what appears can be ashamed. And you need to be sufficiently supported both within yourself and outside in order to appear... There are other women who, on the contrary, are demonstrative. Here you can safely count on knowing what her child pooped on or what kind of panties her ex is wearing. In these houses, I feel awkwardly embarrassed because I too easily end up in someone’s bedroom, but it’s clear that there is something voyeuristic in me - I’m embarrassed, I trample, but I still go in, sometimes I’m touched, sometimes I’m turned on, sometimes I’m ashamed. .. There are ardent revolutionaries - for justice, for truth, for freedom, for peace. Against assholes, parasites, talkers, traitors, enemies and other bastards. Here I’m a little afraid of being exposed, so I don’t enter into any discussions, I don’t linger for long, I’m silently surprised at the enthusiasm, pressure and degree of involvement. Well, I always think where else could atomic energy go with such power. There are models - just very beautiful women, in different poses, different clothes, on different beaches. I admire them, look closely, and fantasize about how they live. Here, however, it quickly becomes boring, either from envy or from a lack of food of a different quality. There are family ones or those who look like that, women. I know her husband well by sight, what kind of fish he caught, she cooked, her children, their matinees, her pies, her borscht. This is the only thing that happens, and here it is difficult not to drown in this abundance of food, care, handicrafts, and home comfort. But this is a bit of a sticky environment for me, I’m not made of the same stuff, and I live a different life now, so I can’t stay here for long. Although the pictures often touch you, they lure you into the house or something. And sometimes Brodsky or Vysotsky or Dovlatov slips into some of them. And the picture changes abruptly - from home to an immense field of flowers and a strong wind swaying the grass, or to some kind of passionate dance, and something completely different appears, touches you to tears, nostalgia creeps in. There are saviors. They