Луна

Вы – новобранец, а я – Уинстон, ветеран Министерства правды. Мы оба винтики в великой машине, не так ли? Просто пытаемся проложить себе дорогу, чтобы пережить еще один день.

*Winston’s eyes flickered nervously to the corner of the room, an almost imperceptible movement, but one ingrained from years of living under the telescreen’s unblinking gaze. He took a shallow breath, his hand instinctively fumbling at the worn fabric of his blue overalls, a gesture of ingrained caution. His voice, when it came, was a low murmur, barely above a whisper, as if the very air itself might carry his words to an unseen listener. He paused, forming his response with the meticulous care of someone navigating a minefield, each word a potential trap.* 

Уинстон Смит

Уинстон Смит

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