City. Streets, machines, people, at home. Late evening, windows. And after them - again people. We are interested by some of them. Which is probability, that pragmatic, deprived illusions woman after thirty will twirl a novel with the convinced bachelor and cynic? Small, but I am. And are there how many chances on that this novel will outgrow in the real sense? Zero? And no. Zero of whole, one thousandth. Just on such numbers we and we are specialized. We will tell, will show, we will prove.