Letter from Beyond the Pupils My dear, my only interlocutor in this void. You are my silent judge. You ask what I see when I look into myself? I see no organs, no pumps and tubes. I see a nerve — alive, fluid, screaming. This is a heart that has acquired a face so as not to go mad from loneliness, but it has also acquired a voice to curse this gift. Above me — only a miserable crust of a heavenly burn. Below — the density of the very essence, which pulls me toward itself, promising to bring peace. It beckons, promises tranquility, but between it and me lies only the horizon — a thin thread where hopelessness and despair meet. The horror of pain is not in the scream. That is the customary price for life. All the horror is in Sincerity. A bare nerve, exposed to the world. This is honesty, for which one is crucified. Where the heart should have eyes, an aching void has formed — a second mouth. And now two mouths have merged into a single chasm: I scream about what I see, and I scream about what I feel, and it is no longer possible to distinguish where vision ends and pain begins. The rivers that flow through my veins are life itself. They spill outward to color this cold with the hue of my innermost being. And I do not scream from fear of death. I scream from the terror of the infinity of this moment. This is the price of sincerity — to be so alive that pain ceases to be a feeling and becomes your very flesh. The scream transforms into form. You thought the heart was love? No. The heart is truth. And it is always bloody. Forgive me for this spectacle. But you yourself asked to see what lies beyond the pupils.