...The belated one looked at him helplessly, often blinking back tears, but did not resist and shuffled to the office, and sat down in a chair, and stared blankly at the screen... - Well, read... read this... The belated one moved his lips, repeating the blackening columns on the screen lines... - Good poems... whose are these? - Yes, yours!! You said it yourself - I was always late, so I came up with a pseudonym for you - Belated... are you offended? - Belated? - the old man smiled bitterly, who was able to pull himself together and, it seems, even sober up... - yes, Belated... you can’t say it better... my poems, you say? True, it seems... only very early... I had something like that there... yes, it was... and maybe not mine...