An army of architecture among the torture factories, seahorses and horses alike, the sleepy pasture drench of vampire coffins and the strange lust of the perverted Romans.
The chrome eyes of Moscovite aliens, the schizophrenic arsenal of conformity and statues, breathing lime and a burnt bronze urn where my favorite person rests, a lifeless and speakless sadness on a face like an unusual doll, I don't like the sound of screeching tires, my own voice, the hollow and quiet-hurt of day after day, how the Kremlin Armoury is a very Soviet building, more Soviet than some of the other identical prison-like castles that dot the beautiful countryside of Russia, the smutty and dirty fog over Moscow, the pearlescent black water in the river and how it's the only place I've ever been to where I saw blood-like lightning lashing a frightened tree, a convict in a prison yard scorching the bark, it was painful to look at, it hurt to look at, it looked like a violent razor maze arc of sinister veins murdering the tranquility and serenity of perpetual silence and emerging viciously from the morose, dull gray clouds like a sharp set of knives stabbed into my unloved chest.