the river of his voice flows in fragments of russian. he has always been one i admired from his heavy metallic victories and the olympic ring on his finger to his giant heart, always reliable, always encouraging, always amazing people with his little acts of illusion. he has a lot to tell, russian childhood memories and experiences the joe schmo american child would never dream of, things that would never seem real otherwise are as real to him as the chlorine he would soak and sweat in for years to support his family at the adolescent age of fourteen.
the memories that lie in his brain still soak in puddles of russian. i noticed scar tissue in a former puncture wound lieing in indle indentation on the edge of his left shoulder blade. upon reching into the puddle to pull out an explaination, his accent became thicker, heavier, like molassas to my ears. 'bulletholes' he said, and turned away as his heart sank in the memory.

(for vlad)