What it was in 1982: shining rails, Martian freight trains delivering hateful silence to the squares around, shining rails, a couple of junkies sitting on them, the schmucks just like me I enjoyed talking to, the hollow
Moscow sun, hovels, dust, hovels galore and slogans above the buildings, long live the Communist Party you fucking shitheads, a couple of bottles of vodka in our pockets immune to lint, cracks in the pavement, potholes.
We did talk like gods avoiding jejune allegories. We were gods in fact that day, and I loved the absence of Militsiya. I loved the lack of everything in their apartment. No sleep, no shadows, translucent curtains, but plenty of ashtrays, weak slanted sunrays and cold tap water.