The Soviet gray factories spit velvet plume after plume of toxic neon vapors into the glowing bladder-like orange clouds, the black Moscow river and zombie-like workers on the march, each clad professionally in a red beret, tan flight suit and their expressionless faces smudged with grime, a man eats his lunch at a small table inside his security booth, a flask of vodka and the state's bread, a growling and clanking bitter-green tank crawls on the asphalt like some wounded beast, the air smells like burnt oil with a hint of impending blue rain, a beggar in torn rags begs for a kopeck with dirty palms skyward, a helicopter circles above like some strange insect about to enter the hive, the iron gates all scream when they rattle open to welcome a transport truck, there is an intricate maze of deep-gut-like canals, and they are full of syrupy and brackish white foam, a tattered banner on the crumbling wall depicting some great victory in a forgotten war, there is a small grassy park with a wooden bench and smooth stone cobblestones, a fat man walks with a cane into the outer shadows, there is a small, downcast woman whose eyes are darker than her coat, and her lavish Pavlo-Posadsky emblazoned headscarf is brighter than the morning flowers among the silent statues and sullen graves of fallen soldiers.