The place itself isn’t cursed but
everyone here seems to believe so. It’s like a snowball effect, depression
amplifies with every nervous driver, every sickly face on Moscow metro, with
the first slushy shit-like snow, with the first guy who breaks her heart and
smokes himself to death.
I don’t know. The thing is, nobody
knows. Compassion is nonexistent in our hearts, our hearts don’t believe in us
anymore. I sit in my kitchen and feel alien. I’d much rather be elsewhere, in
somebody else’s kitchen, drinking somebody else’s tea.
I breath in this air, I can see what
it’s made of; dirt, desperation, misery, alcohol and whores. I smell anger of
young and indifference of old. I smell shit food and dog crap. This is my
Moscow and there’s nothing I can do but run.
