with Konstantin Ladvishchenko

Moscow winters, sullen and grey, penetrating with damp to the very bones, corroding from inside, viscous and infinite as an obscure recurring hangover dream where two people want to catch each other but just endlessly move away.

“I knew plenty of women. Why always more women? What was I trying to do? New affairs were exciting but they were also hard work. The first kiss, the first fuck had some drama. People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me. I was old and I was ugly. Maybe that is why it felt so good to stick it into young girls. Was I trying to screw my way past death?” Charles Bukowski.