For others it may not have been, but upon the winds that ran along the Irtysh a tinge of insufferability lay amidst the evening air. Perhaps it was hot, a good twenty or so degrees. Greatcoat was already discarded, consigned to live the day on the hook crudely nailed to the cabin door. The treeline visible half a kilometer or so from the dirty windows basked at the opportunity, the few spears of sunlight emerging from the sky a rare moment that they could only partake it a few times a year. Though the panes of the cabin were crusted with the debris from the northern winds, enough could be seen amidst the snowy tundra, light painting the eerie white expanse with golden hues like the lights of the town in throes of the Maslenitsa. Within the cabin, an old windmill-shaped desk fan, utterly useless throughout the year except for scarce moments like this, blew a perplexing wind across the one room cabin, clashing with the stuffy winds that managed to waft through the cracks of an ajar window. An ancient radio probably older than the cabin itself groaned out a second playing of 'March of the Soviet Tankers' as trumpets and drums from far, far away drowned out the slight whistle of the evening breeze. The song's obstinate crackle had a calming smoothness in itself, as the song reverberated among the four wood paneled walls of a tiny cabin in 1985.

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