Lamentations blow invisibly through the dark space around the unlit White House, its silence on this morose day of elections offset by the linear glow of Novy Arbat's lamps stretching up the hill, and of evening traffic fleeting glumly over Kutuzovsky Bridge where the Christmas lights are strung in purple and blue.
Moscow where the black water pools on your pavements.
Moscow where the shuffling shadows walk.
Moscow where armies of people clash from opposite sides of the freezing streets at level crossings.
Moscow where a girl's neatly-brushed hair flickers golden on the down escalator.
Moscow where accordion music fills the underpass in the morning, and the smell of piss and vodka at night.
The dying of a year and it's so early to be thinking like this. A small dog for sale in Kurskaya attracts Julia's attention and she's dying to have it; Anna is dying to give Julia's uneaten sandwich to a homeless person and searches the bazaar for someone, anyone, but for once there is no-one. This is not America. Small kiosks and trolleybuses shuddering along, ice on the broken pavements and the electricity is out in the exhibition hall. The devil appeared to the Master in that narrow park, Anna explains. Julia's eyes burn with an intensity as if to confirm this.
Moscow, light me another cigarette and tell me it isn't winter.
Moscow, give me examples of the steely coldness inhabiting the human soul.
Moscow, remind me every day to stare my fellow man in the eyes.