Admit it to yourself: you never really believed for a second that our country would always live well from now on, did you? That it was even capable of it? Deep down, you always knew: He is coming, the formidable, the inevitable.

To understand and feel this, a Russian person doesn't actually need logic, economic calculations, or exposés from Novaya Gazeta. Genetic memory is quite enough, along with a school-level knowledge of native history. Every Russian knows: things don't stay good here for long. Everything inevitably ends with Him.

And now, as oil crashes back into its hell, as the sandcastle of our economy crumbles without it, as the ruble, a reckless amateur climber, plunges into an icy abyss, we nod grimly to each other: yes, this is what we expected.

This is what we expected during all those prosperous years while stuffing our pockets with bills and our mouths with food of all kinds, indiscriminately. This is what we anticipated while stuck in Korean SUVs and German sedans in endless traffic jams, incredulously stroking the natural leather armrests. This is what we foresaw while fleeing to foreign Turkey for any vacation instead of sacred Sochi. And everyone who could bought themselves little houses and apartments far away—in Spain, Crete, Prague—in anticipation of the inevitable and imminent return of the Motherland to its historical groove. The return of all of us to the path trodden by the Volga boatmen.

Now it's fashionable to denounce glamour: girls with pouty lips, potbellied men partying until dawn, social gatherings, Rublyovka estates, luxurious furs, gold on display. But now I'm inclined to justify all these glassy-eyed revelers: they too partied as if it were the last time. Everyone remembered the NEP—sweet like a cigarette before execution. So they smoked, and smoked. Who will judge them? Not I. People simply tried to gorge and drink their fill, like camels at an oasis; because both behind and ahead lies only desert. And into their humps, they packed memories of a sweet, accidental life, which they will now use to get through the real Russian life—frozen, hungry, and gloomy. For this memory must also be passed on to grandchildren—along with the fur coats and Villeroy & Boch bought in 2015.

They feasted, danced, embraced prostitutes, built tasteless castles along the only highway in the country that somewhat resembles a provincial German road. But always, incessantly, anxiously, He loomed before their eyes.

He cannot be named now: it used to be permissible to hint in the press that this word consists of six letters and signifies total collapse, but it is not "fiasco," because it starts with a P and ends with a C. However, recently we were instructed to replace all its letters with stars in print, as with all words suitable for describing our new life. Now it can only be like this: "We are all headed for ******; we knew it!" Six stars instead of a word.

Here they are, rising again over Russia—Six Stars. And we are ready to bow to them, to recognize in them divine providence, and to return, guided by them, to our original historical path.

We do not know how to live. And the prosperous years did not teach us this. We are born to suffer. In obese Europe, there is life, and for this, we despise them through envy. But for us, it has always been survival. And surviving is more familiar to us.

That is why, while answering sociologists on the phone: "I love! I believe! I will vote!" we immediately run to the store for buckwheat. We listened to how the intonations of TV presenters changed, giving us a signal, and decided not to tell the authorities the truth. We nod, smile, avert our eyes, stock up on food before ration cards are introduced. We watch as the Six Stars rise over the horizon.

The illusion will vanish: Cartier perfumes will dissipate, Gucci suits will decay, and rust will consume Korean SUVs. The well-fed 2000s will become whispered myths. And what will remain—besides the porcelain bequeathed to grandchildren—are gray garden plots with small potatoes, crooked fences, silicate high-rises; lucky are those who managed to install at least double-glazed windows.

And who is to blame? The stars? History?

No. We ourselves are to blame: for in fifteen prosperous years, during this well-fed, happy winter's dream, we never believed that this was our life, that we have the right to such a life, that we are not doomed to toil, that we are not born to suffer. That every Russian has the same right to happiness as any Frenchman. Perhaps for some peoples, being determines consciousness, but for the Russian people, consciousness determines being.

Therefore, pray, brothers, for the Six Scarlet Stars rise in the dark sky, for He is coming, and no one will be spared.