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Author Stanislav V. Grigoriev (Works) is fine with any constructive edits you wish to make to this literary work.

Let me in…Let me in through these gates of this yard, in this hole waiting for someone who may be standing behind the blue doors.

No answer.

The man in the black coat gazed silently at me at the rear of the garden.

“Hello”. My broken English sounded awful and I was a little bit confused.

The man disappeared in the bushes. I was confused a little bit more.

In the course of a few minutes he reappeared, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and rumpling his plastic bag. He stood looking outside for some moments, and then I saw him walk in an oddly furtive manner towards the gates.

Nobody there. Today I was alone, I hope.

“Hello, Mr Barrett” I said, thinking it was better to call him that than “Sir”.

“Hi” he answered finally.

“Are you Mr. Barrett?” I asked.

“Yes, but if you are looking for Syd he is not living here. Okay?”.

“Well, I am looking for you, Sir”, I said. O God, I should say “Mr. Barrett”.

After some hesitation the man, leaning against the gates produced a small tin and a plastic lighter and prepared to smoke. His fingers trembled.

4.00 p.m.

“What do you want to know?” he asked calmly with warmth in his voice, and smiled.

“Everything”, I became wordless for a moment, quite lost in awe.

“You know, lots of people came here to learn everything, but you have already learned everything since you arrived. Nothing to add. Nothing at all.”

“But what happened in these last years. What happened?”

“Nothing happened”. Syd grinned, quite the same as he was in his old pictures.

“Did you write new songs?”

“Yes, a few…I spent more time painting, you see”. He fell silent, thinking. “You see these roses and foliage around? I still wonder how they are living here for so many years…so many fucking years they thought I was mad. That was my intention. It is better to be mad, hiding nowhere and being nobody. They used to call me “crazy diamond” but I don’t like it really, so foolish. No sense using these metaphors, what crazy diamond am I? Look at me. When I was younger I thought music could join with painting, with colours, with tastes and everything that I felt. But I am losing it. I no longer feel sounds or colours, I have lost that gift.

What about Pink Floyd…I listened to them occasionally. They became bigger, but from my memories of the sixties we did not agree to make a machine for making money, this was nonsense in the sixties, you know. And to be honest, the only…

Music? I don’t think it’s music or art. Just muzak, nothing else. I don’t remember who first said we should record Emily. Was that me?

No no. I was a big Glam fan, really. I bought tons of albums living in London. This exciting vivacious pulsating music is cool when you’re smoking dope and more.

Acid? No more acid. I went over the top with it. You can’t buy good acid now…tastes like dirt. When they brought out the blots, I rejected it ultimately. No more good acid.

Women? No comment. Had a lot, but there was only one…you’ll never know who she was.

Roger Waters? Never heard of him.

… “ I love my wonderful roses. I have a little bird living under the roof. The little bird comes every night and sings to me before I sleep.

Once a red squirrel was my guest. Very important, you know…” …

We stayed there until evening came. I did not want to leave such a precious person alone, but he insisted.

Wind rolled papers along the ground…

I left, to return the next day.

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