Summary:

Ilya's used to long winters. He longs for the sun. He finds it. (Featuring: an Ilya-centric introspection of his depression, husbands-in-therapy, and a LOT of trite metaphors) -- Ilya’s life consisted in a series of more: first, from his father, who had wanted more success; then Alexei, who had wanted more money. More sucked him, it drained him dry, it left Ilya a walking carcass of flesh and bone and feet fit enough only to skate hockey, and only because it is the only tool with which he could be filled so he could supply more. Ilya’s been empty long ago. Life consisted of moments threaded by the need for survival. Food. Water. Hockey for money. Sex. Vodka. He’s pawed at the hole within him, deep in his chest, and wonders if there is still a soul there. Perhaps he’d given it all, just as they’d asked. Perhaps the little he had left was a mercy. There is no enough as far as Ilya was concerned; it was only the greedy chants of more. Ilya often wonders if his mother wasted away because she had given all of herself. He wonders if he’s taken from her, too.