There's silence most of the afternoon, Vanya just contemplates the great glass Gomorrah appearing like a child's tooth on the horizon between the Hotel Ukraina and Moscow State University. Would that the Fairy take it, nighttime is descending after all in these swirls of warm early winter snow. He's seen Miko's girlfriend and she's twenty-one, Natasha's out there but her daughter's only four.
South-west to the vast expanse of city between the houses. Dry air, the last death-rattle of another autumn in an eternity of cycles repeating. Can we see the pattern? He asks silently, shoe-laces unravelling a short distance from the metro. You have to try with the thin threads you've kept intact this far, for God's sake, Vanya self-admonished, gulping the cold air and grasping the irony of the nearby ice-cream stand. At once, Natasha is so close you can feel her glossy painted nails raking your wrists in playful fashion, the cinema dark and your clock reset to...who knows when (you claim that autonomy after all!), and she's so tangibly far, bathing Galina as her mother farts into the sofa cushions so far from Krasnodar. You just have to loose yourself amid the fronds of her pale hair, deep beneath the streets where history marched impetuously over such human trifles, attributing bullets to kisses. That was twenty years ago, Vanya, mumurs the voice. Now there are no more whispering tank treads, you can indulge their faintly rumbling end here in the windswept chaos of Ploshad Revolutsi, where suddenly you pull Tasha close and kiss her tight warding off history and drowning in the now.
South-west to the vast expanse of city between the houses. Dry air, the last death-rattle of another autumn in an eternity of cycles repeating. Can we see the pattern? He asks silently, shoe-laces unravelling a short distance from the metro. You have to try with the thin threads you've kept intact this far, for God's sake, Vanya self-admonished, gulping the cold air and grasping the irony of the nearby ice-cream stand. At once, Natasha is so close you can feel her glossy painted nails raking your wrists in playful fashion, the cinema dark and your clock reset to...who knows when (you claim that autonomy after all!), and she's so tangibly far, bathing Galina as her mother farts into the sofa cushions so far from Krasnodar. You just have to loose yourself amid the fronds of her pale hair, deep beneath the streets where history marched impetuously over such human trifles, attributing bullets to kisses. That was twenty years ago, Vanya, mumurs the voice. Now there are no more whispering tank treads, you can indulge their faintly rumbling end here in the windswept chaos of Ploshad Revolutsi, where suddenly you pull Tasha close and kiss her tight warding off history and drowning in the now.