For me,you are fresh waterthat falls from treeswhen it has stopped raining. For me, you are cinnamon that lingers on the tongue and givesbitter wordssweetening.For me, you are the scent of violins and visionof valleys smiling.And still,for me, your loveliness never ends.It traverses the worldand finds its way back to me.Only me.
There is something in this January Siberian landscape that overpowers, oppresses, stuns. Above all, it is its enormity, its boundlessness, its oceanic limitlessness. The earth has no end here; the world has no end. Man is no created for such measureless. For him a comfortable, palpable, serviceable measure is the measure of his village, his field, street, house. At sea, the size of the ship's deck will be such a measure. Man is created for the kind of space that he can traverse at one try, with a single effort.