She can’t sleep anymore. She still remembers the cold Moscow streets from back from 1954. Things would have been much better there. The spotlight and glamor seems much colder than from where she used to live. Listening to the silence in the room and staring at the darkness in the corner she sits on the edge of the bed. Feet barely touching the cold floor and hands on her lap, she’s thinking. Dim yellow light from a table lamp shows an orange blanket and dark green walls of her small bed room. Hanging on it is a black and white picture of Stalin staring at the same darkness as she is. The light constructs a faint shadow of her on the white crumpled bed sheets. If the light was any brighter you could see her thoughts. Thoughts no one will ever know.