Dear J, I think of you always. How can I engage you from this distance set by years that separate you from me? Would you like to know about the works of Janos Arany, or about what was unforgivable between Ilya Ehrenburg and Yevgeny Zamyatin? We could look at the shack where Dostoyevsky married his wife, to wander in the word-labyrinth of Borghes, enjoy the strange world of Vian, the acrobats of Maupassant, witness the punishment for falling in love? Goethe would tell but he still would remember, show us Italy. But it was worth it, wasn’t it, love was everything, is everything. Come with me to Kazakh forest, you know where to find what I am looking for. Learn why Chekov did not like to drive in the snow? Still, I would never accept Eden without you. Am I a little seed of a flower mixed into the cement of a busy high-way being driven over thousands of time, looking for water, a space, light? Then one day, alone, in pain, I saw you. A sugared lightning struck me. My life never be a same again and there are not enough words in the dictionaries to describe it. Ady’s Nero, was right, I do not need the greats of Olympus, after all ‘the poet is who kisses and sings.’ For now he sings until he puts his head down in his bed, on a pillow and waits for you to enter his dream. Good night dear J. I pray, so you may stay out of harms way. K.

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