USER: ... Igor (Svidersky) flares up. He always grapples with Georgy Akimovich. - What are you trying to say? - We don't know how to fight. - And what does it mean to be able, Georgy Akimovich? - Be able to? To walk from Berlin to the Volga - that's what it means to be able to. - You also need to be able to move away from the border to the Volga. Georgy Akimovich laughs with a small, dry laugh... - Our tanks are no worse than the German ones. They are better than the German ones. One tankman told me... - I don't argue, I don't argue. Maybe better, I don't know about it. But we still don't have much of a chance. Only a miracle can save us. Otherwise, we will be crushed. Crushed by organization and tanks. A miracle?... Recently, soldiers were walking by at night. I was on duty by the phone and went out for a smoke. They walked and sang, quietly, in an undertone. I did not even see them, I only heard their steps on the asphalt and a quiet, even a little sad song about the Dnipro and cranes. I went. The fighters settled down to rest along the road, on the trampled grass, under the acacias. Cigarette lights flickered. And someone's young, soft voice came from somewhere under the trees. - No, Vasya... Don't say anything... You won't find anywhere better than ours. By God... Like oil, the earth is oily, real. - He even smacked his lips somehow in a special way. - And the bread will rise - it will close with your head ... And the city was on fire, and red reflections jumped along the walls...

USER: ... Igor (Svidersky) flares up. He always grapples with Georgy Akimovich. - What are you tryingwrite a letter to say? - We don't know how to fight. - And what does it mean to be able, Georgy Akimovich? - Be able to? To walk from Berlin to the Volga - that's what it means to be able to. - You also need to be able to move away from the border to the Volga. Georgy Akimovich laughs with a small, dry laugh... - Our tanks are no worse than the German ones. They are better than the German ones. One tankman told me... - I don't argue, I don't argue. Maybe better, I don't know about it. But we still don't have much of a chance. Only a miracle can save us. Otherwise, we will be crushed. Crushed by organization and tanks. A miracle?... Recently, soldiers were walking by at night. I was on duty by the phone and went out for a smoke. They walked and sang, quietly, in an undertone. I did not even see them, I only heard their steps on the asphalt and a quiet, even a little sad song about the Dnipro and cranes. I went. The fighters settled down to rest along the road, on the trampled grass, under the acacias. Cigarette lights flickered. And someone's young, soft voice came from somewhere under the trees. - No, Vasya... Don't say anything... You won't find anywhere better than ours. By God... Like oil, the earth is oily, real. - He even smacked his lips somehow in a special way. - And the bread will rise - it will close with your head ... And the city was on fire, and red reflections jumped along the walls of the workshops, and somewhere very close, machine guns crackled now more often, now less often, and rockets took off, and ahead was the unknown and almost certain death. I never saw the person who said it. Someone shouted, "Get ready to move!" Everyone stirred, their bowlers rattled. And let's go. We went with a slow, heavy soldier's step. They went to that unknown place,stranger girl which on the map of their commander must be marked with a red cross. I stood still for a long time and listened to the steps of the soldiers moving away and then completely silent. There are details that are remembered for a lifetime. And not only remembered. Small, as if insignificant, they eat into, somehow soak into you, begin to germinate, grow into something big, significant, absorb the whole essence of what is happening, become, as it were, a symbol. I remember one killed fighter. He lay on his back with his arms outstretched, a cigarette butt stuck to his lip. A small, still smoking cigarette butt. And it was the most terrible thing that I saw before and after the war. Worse than ruined cities, ripped open bellies, torn off arms and legs. Outstretched arms and a cigarette butt on the lip. A minute ago there was still life, thoughts, desires. Now is death. But in that song, in those simple words about the earth, as fat as butter, about the bread covering you with your head, there was something ... I don't even know what to call it. Tolstoy called this the latent warmth of patriotism. Perhaps this is the most correct definition. Perhaps this is the miracle that Georgy Akimovich is waiting for, a miracle stronger than German organization and tanks with black crosses. But yesterday, before my eyes, a shell exploded near him. Twenty steps, no more, burst. He just leaned over slightly and kept looking for the impulse. I wrapped the damaged area and then checked the entire wire in the area around the break. That was a month and a half ago, in July. It's September now. We are already the tenth day at this plant. The tenth day the Germans bombed the city. They are bombing, which means that ours are still there. So there are fights. So there is a front. So it's better now than in July...likes

USER: write a letter to a stranger girl which one likesrap with name "we never scared"

USER: can you write a rapabout man with name "we never scared"nickname noug4at

USER: can you write about man with nickname noug4atthe most unique metaphysics formula in 10 characters.