Leningrad slumped under a chrisom of snow. Before me, the Nevsky Prospect was silent and still, save for the hazy movement of snowflakes and my breath rising in ribbons. The scene resembled some painting from my childhood – Vrubel’s “The Snow Maiden”? It may not have been Vrubel’s at all, but the galleries had long closed, the encyclopedias burned for warmth, …

A brush stroke. A light stipple. A scrape of my palette knife. I couldn’t remember how long I’d been hunched over the painting, frantically swiping every brush in my collection across the canvas. I could feel my eyes start to droop downwards, begging for even a wink of sleep as colors on the canvas began to meld together — my back ached for relief, but I had to finish it. Nothing else mattered.

Water gushes relentlessly through every crack and crevice of the hastily built wooden shack where I had foolishly chosen to settle for the night, daring to engulf the furnishings dappling the room, however pitifully tumbled down they were. Cursing myself for lingering on terrain close to the shore, I cringe in horror as torrents churn, frothing and foaming, …