“There is no happiness in the world, but there is peace and will,” said Pushkin, but over the years I feel that there is neither peace nor will, but there is, or rather, there is precisely happiness, that is, a painfully acute feeling the indescribable bliss of life. It occurs for different reasons: sometimes the largest, most eventful ones, sometimes small, like grains of sand. Yesterday I woke up to the bright and insatiable singing of birds at dawn. And I felt happiness. If I manage to write prose that conveys this state or at least comes into contact with it, I am the happiest person!