My Copenhagen

This territory has been a wonderful nesting ground. I believe I have always dreamed to live in such a picturesque place to tend to my own intellectual purposes, and lo such a place has materialized. I ride my bike through small streets, cobble-stoned courtyards, and past multicolored lopsided colonial buildings to a grand library perched on one of the canals near the main port of the city. There is something dear to this Danish sense of cleanliness and minimalism and reverence to the aged beauty of the capital.

I leave tomorrow, as if off into immeasurable seas whose horizon I cannot envision. I worry and carry the yet to be rectified paltry qualms of enough kroners in the pocket, but I trust Copenhagen to be a definitive step on my path; a step towards something still to be understood. As with Russia, and how I held her to be my beautiful secret and my austere, silent strength, I now carry this city and the me I have found in it further.

Liedewij can only be mentioned with words that have been consecrated by the stars themselves. Speech will never do her love and compassion justice. I haven’t done anything to deserve such boundless hospitality and to her I will be forever in debt, though, it is certain, she does not expect a morsel in return. Perhaps my motivation for tomorrow lies in my desire to gift her the world?

These days have passed with a blink. And just as my eyelids close to reopen, I cry for this place I called home for the last month.
— 8/3/15

A small city with hardly an address..

Visiting my folks in Cyprus, we took a trip to a small town dating to centuries past. Here are a few images from a locale without even a postal code! 


terminal abudance

you, do you?
when? ok.

nascent everything.

hey, me!

purposeblur purple.

bows are circles.

bows are tumble-ups.
— P. Kalachev

Duomo di Milano, I wish you were more than everything...

Sure, you’re pretty,
but too much for me.
You suffocate with puzzles of grand intricacy.
You see, perpendicular lines, aesthetic, long -
please and arouse when one comprehends form.
Yet you are all styles; flamboyant and loud.
Supremely imposing and not logically sound.

Oh, Madonnina, how to love you I wish!
So why put yourself on the spire of kitsch?
So why prevent ascension to our first gothic kiss?
— P. Kalachev