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For a moment, it seemed that metamodernism was already on its way, chasing away (partially) disappointment, irony and postmodern trauma from the death of the gods. We left the deconstruction, and allowed ourselves to be a little naive again, a little enthusiastic, almost in love. They rehabilitated the anachronism and the irrational. One Russian poet argued that the path to the «new sincerity» lies through the archaic. Now this maxim sounds like a mockery, because in Russia fascism turned out to be the «new sincerity». Hello, the new Middle Ages: ancient game and chton hovers over the bustling city, business districts are seen as ruins, continuing life is already a crime. The Deity woke up, and the Earth is again formless and empty. All narratives shrink into Trümmerliteratur, «literature of the ruins.» Instead of a metamodernist call to everyone to be the hero of the day, there was a spit of history: everyone is a villain. In these circumstances, the charred work of art replaces the icon of deconstruction. The ashes of manuscripts, projects, paintings, photographic films are not redemption, and not evidence, this is a silent cry. After all, the ashes can knock on the heart.