"Our correspondent tragically died while carrying out an assignment for the editorial office…" they will write in the news tomorrow. Only I won’t see it, because I crashed into the concrete floor of a workshop at an abandoned factory.
I fell from a huge height. But somehow I didn’t die—I fell into the late Soviet era. And I ended up in the body of a newly graduated guy from the journalism faculty, who was assigned to a factory multi-circulation newspaper.
How ironic! Where did I sin so much that the wheel of Samsara sent me back to work in the press again?