Ach, Tchekov! Why are you dead? Why can’t I talk to you in a big darkish room at late evening—where the light is green from the waving trees outside? I’d like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one.
The whole world shall be ours because of our love.
To be alive and to be a ‘writer’ is enough.
The mind I love must have wild places.
You have never been curious about me; you never wanted to explore my soul.
The late evening is the time of times. Then with that unearthly beauty before one it is not hard to realise how far one has to go. To write something that will be worthy of that rising moon, that pale light.