Stalin Eats Ham

Something about the colour of the place, abruptly altered, shockingly distant already. I watch the activity, separate. Suddenly uninvolved and struck with amazement about how a place can so cruelly betray me. And on the walls, that familiar sunlight seems sadder, not the property of travelers in whose number I now belong. There is no music so bold or delicate, no dancing limbs; no rain to wash away that something in the trees stinging me in my heart.