To leave everything and go to Moscow!

In the Russian play, it is my name day again. Here, girls are birds in a town that vanishes with little more than a wink. I am in love with the rehearsing, stupid lights, stupid bright, spike tape, cold coffee. I am trying to ache, but someone is whistling. The gist is that childrenare born, love is taxing and persistent. Poverty is the price of scandal, death will ruin you almost. Afterward, you can still say hello to your daughters by stopping the clock in the living room and ruining the mood of a perfectly alright birthday party. I understand now: flinging my arms around your neck Is the only way to greet you come morning. In this way, we arerulers of our own small county, a place of crops, forests, little wars. I play with toys I am too old for. You make jam, learn to fiddle. You used to pass me love notes. Now they’re all titled “On Suffering”. I am thankful we don’t have horses, that duels are out of fashion. You’ve forgotten your lines again— ask me to bring you the coffee. I will look at you, hold my breath, count to ten, repeat: Moscow doesn’t exist. Moscow doesn’t exist. Moscow doesn’t exist.