Spring is knocking on the door. The poet did not like spring. He did not like the rays of the sun, which shone brazenly through the window directly on his face. To him didn't like the slush after winter. Spring was warm, but it had never felt so long ago.

Spring was ruining To Evgeniy , making him think more and more about himself and his existence in this world. That's stupid. He wanted to write poetry more and more, because «this» feeling inside him was consuming him, forcing the Poet to take care of himself. Go outside, go to some cafe. Finally, drink coffee and exhale.

Evgeny was sitting at the table, reading a new book. Of course, his attention and love were closer to poetry, but he never refused to read all sorts of novels and just long stories about anything. Usually, he liked to read about the lives of people with the philosophy genre. He could find himself in such books. «Albert Camus. The Outsider» the book was really not bad in Zhenya's opinion. He found in the main character a similar mindset, similar worldview features.. in general, he liked the Russian classics better.

While reading the book, he does not notice a suitable waiter. —In the end, Mersault will die, — *the stranger says with a calm smile on his face. The poet clutches the book in his hands, shifting his indignant gaze to the stranger. He is silent, not even knowing what to say to this person.