Morning
The New Republic -

Under a canopy skya man settles down a plastic apron on.

As the train slips away evenly, a ghost is left back on the tracks, I open the window,

glance into the courtyard, at the statue of Kirov. The Marshall as usual is raising his hand: Greetings, People Hello-Hello, fellow Communist Party members.

The pigeons shitting on it belong to this land, not to the hand that is hiding the clouds with its greeting,

while flies attack a fruit stand, and melons spill from a pile, and armor-plated bursts...

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