I am now a wanderer - a just punishment. But perhaps I was born so that the "eternal slaves" can speak through my lips. Why should I spare myself? Should I deny what is likely the only duty of a poet just to ensure my poems are printed in a literary collection edited by the national publishing house? My friend embraced the abstract terror, no matter what name he chose to give it, and our paths diverged. Whether the side I find myself on now will be the victory of the future or its victim is not the matter here.