After work, Tom sometimes goes to a local club to be around unnecessary people, to whom he probably won’t be able to say hi tomorrow, looks at them, good and bad, they are always new, like the first snow. Then a car ride home, during which a comfortable, modern car reliably protects him from the wind and cold. It’s nice to be inside such a car, but in particularly bad weather Tom stops, as he does now, on the side of the road and goes out into the roadside forest. Rain or snow penetrates the pores, shaking up every cell in which a small, nondescript tenant has settled, settled in, turned on the floor lamp and began to wait. On days like these, Tom kicks all these residents out onto the street. He looks at them huddling together in the wind, a lot of little stupid Toms, screaming into the atmosphere of the earth, lying on its fertile soil.