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How I left America, and my adventures in Moscow as a husband, father and artist.
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the storm (naked and afraid)
And as the storm arrives, it is already dark - as if someone went back in time and turned out all of the lights 20 minutes ago without anyone noticing. The sky cries out and it is difficult to think of this weather, and nature itself as something that is not human. How easy it is to feel so angry, to crack thunder under your feet in pain and disappointment. How lovely does it feel to be drenched, flooding the streets with everything inside you?
The storm is drunk on itself as I slap the balcony windows closed. The air smells of frogs and fresh mud. A shirt N left out to dry swings in the kitchen window, as if it is alive too - twirling and pirouetting on a cheap coat hanger as the storm rolls over us. Crying and dancing, every random object seems to be living more those people down there, afraid in the street trotting to their cars between the raindrops.
The trees bend in a hard wind and some will fall.
Later, there will be the sound of chainsaws as they hack its carcass into pieces that are left there, naked and broken for days until someone takes them away.
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