I dream the earth is dead and the sun has gone white dwarf. In the dim light I am drinking tea that Mayakovsky pours from a samovar. We sit without words, drinking, staring at a shadowy moon. He drums the table with his long fingers— he starts to say something and stops — rubs his neck, stands —up pacing slowly back and forth, he starts mumbling under his breath, he is writing again in his head. I can see the dim light of the sun dripping from the bullet hole through his heart. Steam rises from the samovar in long lonely swirls.
It is unbearably still.