landscape

No one walks the streets in the evening.
“The birds don't sing here. The trees don't grow.”
And there's not even a sense of rightness like the old song.
It's just a landscape.
And there's nothing in the landscape but other people's lines.
That's what I'm saying, there's nothing outside the window.
For a poem, do you have to list these things?

No moon. There's plenty of snow. No sounds. Silence is plentiful.
No people. There's a sky, probably, I wasn't looking. A small dog yapping somewhere far away.
There's only frostbitten delivery scooters scurrying around,
determined to make all the money in the world that way.

Why would I open the blinds when I know everything by ear?
This one's parked, I think it's a 22, studded tires, 7 tons.
He came home and he's tired, but he's parked neatly flat alongside.
I can hear everything clearly, I don't even have to see it because I'm Sherlock Holmes.
It's almost Christmas Eve. There are a lot of characters in this knot.

Yes, Vladimir Semyonovich, you probably never imagined such a Moscow even in your worst dream.
No Strastnoy remained almost the same in appearance, sleep well.
Oh, they're here, what a nightmare is playing in the car? My God, my neighbors must be idiots.
Is this a stream report? Then I want an apple.
No, I don't respect streamers, they're wasting their lives for three pennies.
No, Ouija, that's not exactly what I'm doing right now,
or else where's my three pennies?
No, the difference is not selflessness, it's a fundamentally different action.
Mr. Whiskey, can you keep it short? I'm getting sleepy.

---------------------------

Have we kept life here for a little while? No?
But these are philosophically abstract concepts. You can't tell the living from the non-living at a glance, just like you can't tell the real from the unreal. Oh, they're fighting that right now, so no one will question it.
Sleep. The mystical wins this match. Are there any more bets? I want to bet my most precious possession, my cats.
Is the winnings in the cats?
What?