Years after a Raskolnikovian time, I have awoken as a man that looks upon the endless sky and thinks: This is a perfect world. Years after I wrote how longingly I wished to be a simple man, I have awoken as a man that stares in perfect silence at the sky and thinks: I am a quiet soul. I used to dream strange dreams, and doze under a secrete and obscure fever. Now in my dreams I hold a simple, yet exacting desire: kindness, that supreme expression of the love for life.