Under the blue haze of the golden sun, as if carelessly and cheerfully, but at the same time tensely and mercilessly, life flows in Paris. The city seems to me like a cubist painting, perhaps because I feel like an outsider and do not succumb to the charm of this Greek freedom of street life. How hard it is to be in the noise of a foreign language, on unfamiliar streets, among foreign gestures, in the movement of a foreign element, being completely free. This feeling suddenly overwhelms me with despair when I stand by the fountain in the Saint-Michel square. I look at all this moving Paris around me and think: 'What a burden it is to live without my own sky, home, porch, language, people, native land!' Of course, this is a weak moment, it will pass, and I will forget all the corrosive salt of this feeling. But right now, no one knows how, standing next to the yellowish walls of Notre Dame, for the first time in my homeless life, I envy this leisurely Frenchman in old-fashioned clothes with a gray beard, the passengers in colorful cars by the bridge, and the people in the shaking green buses, all of them, the French, simply because they are home, and they feel good in Paris. I suddenly realize that I have no Russia and can never have it; it is a chimera, a nightmarish emigration delusion and self-complacency; life is lost once and for all, and at its end, only the classic weight of foreign thresholds and the bitterness of foreign bread remains.