Veliky Novgorod, Russia. The statue. A potent work of art surrounded by puritanical silence and scorn, the hatred and bitterness of violet-eyed vampires among the watch tower shadows, terminal cloudbursts and rape, yellow ribbons in the trees, things I cannot share with anyone, diseased people in their freshly painted boats and river-front homes, pools of mercury, wooden towns hit by lightning, liars and drunks, thieves and hypocrites, pale faces lit by orange candlelight, broken spokes of a wagon wheel, scoffers and a cathedral of classic novels, poetic bone yards and vicious, jet-fuel vodka, a glass jar of Vodou grave dust, far away Savannah street-lights and the skeletal remains of a dead child frozen in an orchard near a cemetery, a delicious apple-like accent hidden and quiet forever, the familiarity of a mad world that is mute, exquisite cobblestone path-ways and austere weather atop the slated-stone roof of the Victorian mansion by the pond, the lavish white masks and dreamy happiness, the somber graying glow of sidewalks, running into open arms, fragments and fractures of a spotless pen, the cold sunlight of sadness on my face.