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Sebastian has many women in his life, but not all are his advocates or lovers. Sometimes the friendships seem forced out of pity. However, Polina Mazaeva loved him very much for as long as she could.
“An artist, is just a colorful, self-destructive fool making muses left and right of women who he is too poor to build a life around, but so much of a distraction he can keep them for a bit amused. An artist is a social parasite, with no aim, especially a poet for god’s sakes. Death to the artists and cheers to the investment bankers, the engines of productive society, I’d like to be fucking one,” so says Maria of Moscow voting with her lips not her feet against American artists.
“He appears more infatuated with the idea of a real relationship, than the mechanics needed to keep on going,” said Daria to the secret police when the arrested her in January.
“Who is Polina Mazaeva? A coy Russia agit-prop? No, No, she actually has fallen in love with this radical. And they are preparing to meet, but have composed a number of Russian American, or Americano Soviet love songs and scribbles. Truly, I just wish he would disappear in Syria and we can close his file,” wrote Case Officer David Smith of Homeland Security, Station 4443.

Why and when Sebastian and Polina began to write each other is of no great mystery, both were in existential crisis. They wrote often and eloquently in the year leading up to his deployment in Kurdistan Syria and Iraq. These letters and poems all sounded similar, but not the same to previous love affairs across the Cold War, but they reinforced each other’s motivation.

Dear Polina Mazaeva,
[American Russia Love Song 116]
We now sit down in different cities,
We are all dying, on our own, in a terrible way.
We went hunting, for the words in Russian or in English for, the clever, slash redeeming things, we might, even begin to try, and say.
Raise your head and hands up rude boy!
That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!
“You found your son, you saved your wife you helped your people win the war.”
Ana Campbell isn’t dead this time, regular people, comprehend the revolutionary side of this long epic thing that sounds like lullabies and gory folk lore!
That’s not how the story ends this time;
Tragically as it might be, you get to start again. Tell us what you fought for!
No, no, no, this isn’t right, I turned my gun on Newey before the fire fight that night.
Polina’s alone and in poverty, she’s trapped in Novgorod. What have I done!
Sebastian is sealed in a psychiatric ward! Making these fucking phrases rhythm rhyme for fun!
Anya’s losing her little mind in Baghdad.
Piling and Dan Newey are in French and British prison, so this happy tale is really quite black and rather fucking sad.
That’s not how the story ends this time!
I’m a woman not a shot girl, I’m a journalist not someone’s whore!
What were these hands grasping for!?
Tell it better, give us something, give us hope give us something to believe in!
Don’t let your martyrs’ dies for nothing, hold out longer dear dead Afrin!
That’s not how the story ends this time!
Sebastian finds his mind in chapter three.
And long live the Kurdish resistance, I wonder what Anya can see, when the lights go out and the rubbing oil turns her to Cleopatra.
But, this is sad long terrible black soliloquy. Resistance was our mantra.
About the things we did, to we. It was murder carried out like tantrum.
That’s not how the story ends this time!
Afrin is defensible, Anya is a happy kid again. Yazan conquers his disease. Sebastian has the strength of lions, of over 45 men! But that’s all in your sad Americano mind game!
But now we begin, everyone lost something and it seems hard to think we could ever win. It’s over you all lost, things are still the same.
Give them something to believe in!

“Give, me, back, my shattered life!”
Let my people find a way to win!
And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go!
Turn back the clock give us our lives!
And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go!
Turn back the clock give us our land!
And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go! (Ready to blow).
Turn back the clock give us our lives!
That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!
This is not a ballad for people who build bombs!
This is not a ballad for, people who turn cars into battering rams! Man, your life is nearly gone!
That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!
This is not a ballad for two people who move on.

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