no agenda

oh my russian, you're such a shy one, keeping your tounge and trying your best to be invisible and elegant all at once. I believe in your humility only to a point, after all, you're russian. You russians and your pride. You are built on an understanding, a grasp of suffering and an intrinsic solemn romance. The burden of true love, it makes your bones hurt. I think you create your own weather, your own rain clouds and heart stopping winters. You built the stigma of Siberia upon your own ideals, your accurate look on the contradiction of living. I'm obsessed by your pride amongst industrial squalor, soaked to the bone with polluted snow and the purest vodka. I desire my own life to be as mysterious as your beauty, as expansive as your geography, as volatile as your history, and as sacred as your tradition. Adoration.