Cold. Busy. Rude. Unapologetic. But underneath it all your generous warm core radiates, Moscow. You are misunderstood and misrepresented in the media. A million words are little to describe the duality of your existence. A hundred years are not enough of a lifetime to comprehend your complexity. From the early morning hours till late night, the electric feel you gave me woke up a beast long awaken inside me. You played with my imagination with your kaleidoscope of colours. You swung me in your cradle and got me dreaming of violins, pianos and late nights at the theatre. Somewhere in all your faces, I saw the face of the devil. That inviting look, that temptation, that wicked fire in the eye…. All I could do is follow. So lead me to the finale, Moscow. Don’t be gentle with my soul. Twist me, trick me, tease me… Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic. Maybe I’m nostalgic of a past long gone, too far to be repeated. Maybe I’m chasing waves Gatsby style. But Moscow, you beauty… You left a mark on my face. The mark of my tears silently falling down.