Five March, Березень, пятый, these clouds, butterflies, this old anger and this rotten coffee ***. Mold and clouds. The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes (mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say I will not be a prime squared again for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all disappointed dogs, life after love.