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They found him the next morning, at the foot of the cliff the locals called the “Demon’s Finger.” But it was no longer Sergey. What they were looking at was an installation. A cruel, meaningless piece of art created by a dying reality. He lay on the rocks not as a man, but as a broken doll, discarded by an angry child. His body was bent at an impossible angle, one arm reaching up toward the sky he had never managed to touch. And the colors. God, the colors
Внимание заказчикам! Книги и журналы в твёрдом переплёте формата А4, а также простые тетради для учебы не печатаем. Минимальный тираж офсетной печати 500 экземпляров