Some days I cannot talk.
Some days I have to write.
He bumps into me on the stairs, potato vodka stinking through his coat, and I m thrown into his skin. Not for the first time, but it s the worst so far. We are no longer standing in front of 22 Novaya Rodina with the all-new apartment buildings already beaten and cowed, but we are outside Lubyanka Square in the shadow of the iron man. I wear his eyes for a mask as the officer in the mud-green coat scribbles notes and says How long have the Lychenkos lived there?
I fall out of his skin and soar up the stairs. Mama, mama, I have to warn her. It s not a vision, but it s not a dream either, he touched me and I saw, sometimes it s wrong but I can t take a chance, not with this neighbor who knows our true name. I press the button and nothing happens. Every electrical current travels lazily down its wire, every gear clicks into place with a yawn, it s all taking too long. The building will not admit me. It is made of giant concrete slabs, cantilevered into place as if by magic, a Stonehenge for the people, the worker, the state. I press the button again.
Opening to my new work in progress, SEKRET. I needed a break from major plot rewrites for UNDER A DEAD MOON.