“Our correspondent died tragically while carrying out the assignment of the editor...” - they will write in the news tomorrow. Only I won’t see this, because I crashed on the concrete floor of the workshop of an abandoned factory. I fell from a great height. But for some reason I didn’t die, but failed during the times of the late Soviet Union. And I ended up in the body of a guy who had just received a diploma from the Faculty of Journalism, who was assigned to a factory circulation department. Oh, how ironic! Where did I sin so much that the wheel of Samsara again sent me to work in the press?