Days in Moscow, 2022

Am I a fool, a churl? Do they see me as a sulk or a coward? They question me. I stop them at a distance of 20 feet: Germs abound. They sit at the end of a giant table and look ridiculous. I make them wait hours for my arrival. They understand what this means... I am aging, waning. No, I mustn't say that. In judo, I flip men far younger than me down onto the hard mat. I weave through phalanxes of men on the hockey ice and drop goals into the net. Untouchable. I have grown old. Distance. I require distance. And silence. Days passed in suites of rooms. I am seen only by the fading northern sunlight and the housekeeper, properly vetted. I speak to people through screens. But they are not as smart as me and they embarrass themselves before me. Loneliness? At times. People can be useful. I want the best for myself, which is the best for my country. Does that sound believable? Ha ha. I am the man in time who walks beside the river, in the shadow of palaces, thinking. I understand greatness. I understand sacrifice and terror. Perhaps there is no greatness without sacrifice and terror. I bring forth terror, but the sacrifice is not mine to make. Sacrifice is not made by great men, but by those he conquers. And those he commands.