New-Year-Mystery

These artworks will be released for sale on December 23, at 21.00 Moscow time, on the 'Shop' page.
shamancats.com/news/2014-12-17…

In a big city, on the main square, stands a New Year tree.
It is made of metal pipes and glass spheres, and there are round dances, and multiple Fathers Frosts, and presents; and a man in a sparkling suit is shouting something from the stage, and firecrackers are rattling, and the people are tramping down the dirty snow, and the music is hitting the walls, and rolling down the backstreets, and crushing the windows.
On the edge of the city there's another tree; it stands beside a derelict, unfinished hospital building. It is all covered with hoarfrost at the moment, and the orange light of a distant streetlamp touches it, and the spruce is shining.
A homeless man, Vasiliy Petrovich, makes his way to the cold, empty bulk of the hospital to get some lodging for the night. Vasiliy Petrovich looks around, and he can see: there are thousands of tiny footprints crossing the smooth snow surface.
These are the urban homeless cats, who are gathering under the spruce to arrange their New Year mystery.
The cat is speaking, the cat is singing, the cat is creating its story.
Of important things they are telling, and of minor ones; of chimerical fictions and of someone's dreams.
Of how the galaxies are born, and how the northern lights bloom above the city of the Dark Gods. How the Twilight Women wander the foggy fields.
Of what is the True and Alien Gist of the Cat; of how the Horned Lunar Beast walks through the snowdrifts, leaving no footprints.
Of how the Amazing Man with the face of light shepherds some Snowy Ghosts. Of how the Deities of the Dark Water search for their hands in their sleep.
Some cats are singing of angels and of paradise gardens; others are singing of the Ever-Burning Lights in someone's calm hands.
Of how the Green Imps sprout in the spring. Of how the Five-Eyed Lady lights her matches.
Of how the Herbalist and the Witch find each other by chance, when their eyes meet accidentally in the crowd.
Of how some people carry evergreen trees in them, and fear no cold.
Of how the Lost Stranger roams around the blooming groves. Of how some human is catching the stars.
Of how the Lovers dance under the stars, and how new moons grow on a big tree.
***
Everything they tell is becoming true, and the abandoned hospital bursts with dozens of pictures. Summoned by the cats, images cover the walls, soak in the snow, shine brighter than the street lamps; and it looks like all the northern lights of the world are here at one time.
The cats keep speaking on and on, the cats keep singing. They must not stop. They have to let the ghosts dance till the very morning. They have to bring them to life.
Vasiliy Petrovich laughs and caresses the ragged, pauper cats, who are as homeless as himself. They have neither sausages nor tangerines. They only have this theatre of ghosts, which will become a never-come-true story by the morning.
***
People are coming back home from the feast; they are going to drink champagne and fall asleep with their faices in the salad. There are no more music, no more snowdrifts, no more sparkling men on the stage, no more Fathers Frosts.
"The cats are so noisy today. No rest for the wicked, huh? Starving in the winter, aren't the