About the book: 2019 / Twenty times a day - that’s how many cigarettes I allow myself to smoke every day - I look from the balcony at the huge house that occupies almost half the wall of the house opposite poster, and I imagine that there, behind this fabric, browned by time and city soot, and the dirty brick facade behind it is my next and this time last apartment. Two fair-haired women smile joyfully from a faded advertisement: a young full-lipped woman in a white medical coat, and an elderly one - gray-haired, good-natured and happy. Below, in green ornate letters, is the name: “Garden of Eden” and a telephone number that should be dialed to be in their happy company. I didn't call. But one day, passing by the main entrance, I looked inside. Instead of a cute young blonde behind the counter there was an old and skinny Mexican woman with long multi-colored nails. Not immediately looking up from the phone, she angrily asked why the hell I forgot here? I didn't find the answer.