Impeccable rigid itinerary – left unobserved, on magnate progeny child. Beyond the surrogate term of formula pacification, where appetence was hastily soothed and howls thwarted, no cradle was left in numbing snow to fortify this infant’s body or soul.
Cast to explore emotional growth, solitarily – constructing headroom in Misha’s mind to play, stripped of companion kindergarten, as are nobility, in protected isolation. Lavish attire, large mass, short stature, plump cheeks – the antithesis of fathers’ aspiration for an athletic Olympiad, sound body in a sound mind – thrown to chance in youth.
Matushka, her flimsy torso fishbone thin, premium couture sagging, as strung on a laundry line. Bob-hair wilfully acid-pale white, tattoo eyebrows in flush quizzical arch. Drum skin choked across her cartilage; breasts distended, infeasibly on the fragile frame. Her grinning teeth whitened incandescently; acrylic lengthened fingers regulate image to the obsessive app. Stiletto feet cramped, forced aside by bags, bags aplenty, no notion to stow, stacked high on deck, for a journey of discomfort – all shrouded in green, red and gold pizazz.
Strapped to his seat, he guilefully stares, signalling appetite, dereliction, and regret—no time to shop for snacks while indulging her duty-free cosmetic obsession. She offers precious Misha a meagre shelled-out bread roll—such a blunt diet variation—trailing an empty Oreo box.
With broad fingers, he explores the corners of the crust as if mushroom hunting, a young naturalist far from nature, never once occasion to saw wood. Yet, to his credit, kindly appreciative of abundant gifts. – Reasserting his central universal status, in grime augment, of the prodigal oligarch.
Audio – Little Oligarch