“Slow”, that is, written as the two thousandths lived, the prose is an attempt to depict how we saw ourselves in the mirror of the times that have come: stories about a prosperous clerk who suddenly turns out to be a homeless tramp and starts life anew, watching with amazement at himself yourself; about the Crimean resort bliss, which unexpectedly turns inside out for the narrator, forcing him to experience almost death-like languor; about the life of the inhabitants of an ordinary Moscow courtyard, the pictures of which suddenly begin to resemble a leaky canvas, and from the black cracks of this canvas drafts of an unknown - frightening and bewitching - reality stretch out; about a hotel girl at night and her strange client, who together figure out what is really happening to them; and other stories. In other words, prose about the “ordinary” life of “ordinary” people, each of whom is a mystery both to others and to themselves.