A mustache and a pipe

I had a dream about Stalin.
He sat behind a large wooden table.
I ran up to him thinking about how to take a nice photo of us together.
It seems that it was not a selfie.
But I can’t guarantee that fact, because somehow that moment was not recorded in my memory.
Stalin smoked a pipe and was perfectly alive.

One could not pass up a photo like that. Would you pass up an opportunity to be on a photo with Stalin?
Today we visited Dom Malyutki orphanage in Lugansk, and I did not manage to take a photo of two urchins poking one another.
They quietly stood in their beds, trying to study one another’s noses. Pudgy and cute foundlings, not wanted by their parents.
One of them began to touch the other’s forehead just as I quietly sneaked into the door. But then the ladies rushed in and began trying to get the kids to pose.
In Lugansk today there was fresh summer rain and thunder. Lightning lit up the sweltering wartime city.
I couldn’t manage parallel-parking next to the hospital.
Prophets, astrologists, physicians–what does a selfie with Stalin mean?
Or perhaps a pipe is sometimes just a pipe?

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