The cross, and what it implicates - complete and total submission to will.

The rain in the headlights, how the breeze has turned cold and leaden. Late into the night, as my window shudders, it is as if a shadow had crept into the corner of my room and fallen asleep. Just taking a breath, just a draught of air, transforms you. What is there now to accomplish - was this what Mayakovsky whispered to himself, head in hands, as the greying night grew more and more oppresive?

How my body shivers and how I exhale hurriedly, as if that breath was an exclamation. My skin is homesick for warmth. I wonder if the slap of horseshoes against the pavement was the same as cars outside my window, quiet, modern, customary. It was expected and ignored, an easy assumption.