"My teacher was teaching me the whole Stanislavsky training, and I love Chekov, so I really wanted to go [to Russia]," she says, running her hand through some grasses, sending the seeds everywhere. Then, more quietly: "I met a boy there, actually. I fell in love for the very first time… even though the relationship ended because of the distance.
I could speak a little Russian, but I forgot it. I had the whole Rosetta Stone set, but I gave it up. We broke up and I [thought], ‘This is depressing’. This is going to remind me of him forever.”
glory, glory, glory: a mix for the heavens on high (listen)
“I heard the universe as an oratorio sung by a master choir of stars, accompanied by the orchestra of the planets and the percussion of satellites and moons. The aria they performed was a song to break the heart, full of tragic dissonance and deferred hope, and yet somewhere beneath it all was a piercing refrain of glory, glory, glory.” - R.J. Anderson, Ultraviolet
Clint Barton is lying, bruised and bloodied, on the floor of a sparse yet expensive looking studio apartment.
His head is pounding, something that is not helped by that music. Is that his phone? Yeah, it’s his phone.
With a groan he opens his eyes.
Looking down at him from the sofa is a girl in a purple sweater and a mangy looking yellow lab.
"Someone named Natasha keeps calling," the girl explains as she hands the phone down to him. "And texting."
Clint takes the phone. Fifty two missed calls.
"Ok," he mutters. "This looks bad."