Sounds of a muted piano play through the blurs of my eyesight while I stagnate beside the aromas burning of patchouli and sandalwood and vetiver and fennel, and wait for the Milanese greeting of later. Of Minsk, I wonder, scared not by a warning, for having been borne of Africa, waiting to re-acquaint with a man from Moscow. Fur hats and carriages, faceted stones and glistening; out of History I am throwne, for a future I need owne.