I ate turkish food and walked up hills in the biting painful cold. It was night and the sky was pink and there was a burnt out old green building looming up behind a street lamp.

i stood barefoot and very still in a mosque listening to a young boy chant after his father-teacher. The mature voice and the young voice ringing high off of the walls.

There was the Volga.

I smoked cigarettes and slid on the ice.

There were hills.