Moscow in the rain looks like Tokyo in the rain.

Time is a river, time is a mirror, taking from us without interest, making a killing in the night. 

Love falls, has fallen, like the first darkness of autumn, the first stinging chill in our bones. And the first day is like the last in the north. 

You see a woman on the W14 with an Irish fist, small and inscrutable, and a Spanish arm. You catch your image in the windows, faintly reflected, the broken images like everyone else's-at least in their uncertainty. We hurtle on, with this brief interior light, without resolution, past empty playing fields, and parks shrouded in darkness apart from the artificial lights; a fox pushes against these vast absences, knows something of the stars.

The mirror on the wall clouds over, and a turquoise shape, a veritable small continent, has formed on its surface, disturbing the silver. The mirrors in the house are disintegrating, revealing a text, a word, another mirror.

A man in the land of the pure cut a tomato and found the name of God; you cut a loaf of bread and cut your own finger.