My president is a prick. At two we taxi her across Moscow again. The city has ravens instead of pigeons. There are many men with identical black business briefcases, even Kostya has one of those. Vastly fewer books are being read in subways than only two years ago.
All apartments are in total chaos, and no hint of taste anywhere.
My maiden subjects me to acrobatic dancing to mindless disco, this circumventing intromission. She is made out of rubber, but my bones are creaking. Wants me to make five children with her. Has a wonderful movie-making mother who seems to be my age. Everybody is paranoid about telephone taps, especially our maidens.