20 Mar 2004
Russia, my obsession, my cure, I look upon a book by Dostoyvesky and think of perfection. The great slavic language filled with revolution, and rebellion, as well as surfdom, and repression, I look at the ceiling and laugh at the grey sky that is outside, waiting for my transportation to moscow. St. Petersburg's name is always a reminder of building things up from sludge, I think of Boris coming to meet me to discuss, nihilism persauding me to destroy everything, to burn my possessions just because I can. I want the world to crumble before my eyes, creating a sub-species that seems to understand what light is and that art is not an investment, and that writing is not part of market placement. I want words like socio-economic, burned within the minds of primitives as a curse word, and the curse words of now to be words within the terrible religion of the after society. I want to be gaining warmth from the flag I found burning. I would rather live in insanity than be expected to put on a suit, and drop the bomb. The atom bomb was built to beat the germans, the hydrogen bomb to kill the russians, and now to kill the terrorists. The soviets are dead and stalingrad is gone, it reminded me of 19 million dead for a dream that would have either ended in war (to stop the bolsheviks) or collapse as it happened. I miss the old russia, before the war, only when the tsars were westernized, but I think they went in the wrong direction, they should have easternized. I take leave of my conversation with Boris about the old land and the old ways, and nihilism, how could a german know so much?