A molecule of Russian immortality.
Russian poets are hypertensive: the sky is spattered with their blood at high pressure, and they feel it like their pulse beating in their temples. And when a strategic bomber draws its ominous bloom, they're the first to catch it. Lermontov saw the same darkness when he looked at his demon.
A bomber, a demon, the horse of the apocalypse - according to Prokhanov, one and only shadow over the Russian world. But where the lord of the UFOs rises from the abyss and the darkness rushes like horses' hooves, there, in the deep snow, the snowdrop blooms: hell and heaven converge at some point. Here from the pulse of the Russian immortal molecule the premiere of the new regular column "PROCHANOV: A walk into the fire will take place tonight.