Smoke-made men, shadows in the steam, God’s orphaned bastards abandon child and country. Besieged by earth. Buried in water. Engulfed in flames. A father chases his little wonder towards apocalypse. At the edge of the steps is the cliff and the valley and the far-off castle. Did you do the candle magic? Do emo kids read Pushkin? The sounds are raindrops and footfalls. Songbirds live in the cathedral, in the blouse, in the womb, of the Madonna. There’s a white horse by a lake. This is Tuscany. This is Moscow. Nobody beats Tarkovsky.