Attempt an interview with the voiceless, and you might discover what Hell is. What? you ask. How dare I proclaim the existence of such a space?
Let the length and breadth of my silence serve as your answer.
I never discard the bread of my hunger. Instead, I crumble any stale pieces onto the sill and watch turtle-doves approach through the casement windows.
Tonight, in my mind-meanderings, we have just left Mayakovskaya station and are walking briskly down Bolshaya Sadovaya. We turn a corner and enter a tall gray building with rounded bay windows. We hear a woman cry out, "Oh, the poor seagull!" and then there is a sudden crash: a book clatters down the cement steps and thumps near my feet.
I reach down to retrieve the book. I notice it is curiously bound in green velvet with red lettering, but another hand lifts it quickly out of mine, before I can even place the language of its title. "Come!" says the owner of the hand, a tall woman clad in a long purple gown. She lifts a brass door knocker, and a heavy black door opens and then closes decisively behind my back.
Glancing up, I find myself, alone, once again, in a dimly-lit basement apartment. I lean back on a worn chaise lounge and sigh.
A soft touch on my knee surprises me in the midst of my silence. I think, at first that it is Begemot returning to haunt me, and raise my hand, ready to slap his head. But no--it is a gentler, smaller creature. He tickles my knee until I kneel down on the parquet in an attempt to speak to him. We begin a quiet conversation, and discover that we are somehow old friends. I name him--most affectionately--my Mouse. The rain arrives, washing down the dusty streets, yet leaves me with the delight of his acquaintance.
I'm mad, you say? Before you pass a final judgment, come and meet my Mouse--or should I call him Prince Myshkin? Just grant me a bit of notice before you arrive, and I'll leave out a few extra crumbs for him, after the doves have finished their dinner.
The mountains held up the sky like pillars, releasing plumes of pebbles, streams and silt as far as my girlish eyes could follow, and w...
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