My sight begins to fade as I'm carted across the terrace.

I see a brilliant steel statue at the center of a fountain. Trotsky holds an ice pickaxe defiantly towards the sky, glinting in the sunlight.

In his other hand, he holds something lower, near to his belt line. It's round and sturdy. A human head. The man has strong features and a full mustache.

I speak out, "Comrade... The head... Tell me it belongs to Nietzsche.... GOD TELL ME IT'S NIETZSCHE"