Abstract
The old clock was slowly counting hours and minutes. In spite of the fact that the morning rays tickled his nose and prevented him from concentrating, the shaggy boy about 9 years old was drawing something on an unevenly torn off sheet of paper, then was crossing it out, then was writing again. Giving birth to the word, thoughts mixed with feelings fluttered in his shaggy head. This made him to reach for the pen and write again. Victories and failures, joys and sorrows, unknown depths of existence, a magical kaleidoscope of nature and, first of all, love - all this excited and inspired, added up in a moment and settled in verse lines, sealing up in the word. The pointers of a clock ran forward and counted the years. Uneven sheets of paper were folded into books», – said Yaroslav Skidan about his becoming.
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