The hallway...

The hallway smelled like Russia today: one part borscht, two parts sweat and three parts aged must. There must have been a cosmic confluence, a meeting of minds, a wince at the prick, something flew in through a window not yet closed but still opening. There must have been a memory apart from the one remembering it. The hallway smelled like it was running down the stairs into the lobby and out of its mind. The hallway was a minute man left standing two minutes after the battle started. Alone is a kind of memory. Apart is a kind of art. Everything must smell like the Russia of a once was childhood. There are too many factories in my imagination, not enough building blocks for a fence when neither the moon or the sun will creep into bed. But something creeps and it doesn't smell like a childhood from another Russia...