That day he had sold quite a few of his piroshki. But it didn't make him particularly happy. I should start packing up, there's nothing more to sell, he said to himself. But he didn't want to go home yet. Should I go home now or later? And when is "later"? He began packing up, but stopped after a moment. He had the idea of not going home at all. He'd take out all his money from the bank and disappear to California. With a sigh, he started packing again. He would go home, after all. He hesitated for a split-second and listened to the nocturnal hum of the city.

I like that rhythm, too. It reminds me of swashing of the sea.