It Is Unbearably Painful For The Soul

All That I Am Hangs By A Thread Tonight

I Myself, From The Very Beginning, Seemed To Myself Like Someone's Dream Or Delirium Or A Reflection In Someone Else's Mirror, Without Flesh, Without Meaning, Without A Name. Already I Knew The List Of Crimes That I Was Destined To Commit.

In The Terrible Years Of The Yezhov Terror I Spent Seventeen Months Waiting In Line Outside The Prison In Leningrad. One Day Somebody In The Crowd Identified Me . . . And Asked Me In A Whisper . . . "can You Describe This?" And I Said: "i Can."

Sunset In The Ethereal Waves: I Cannot Tell If The Day Is Ending, Or The World, Or If The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

There Is A Sacred, Secret Line In Loving Which Attraction And Even Passion Cannot Cross.