Letters to Another Room. Ravil Bukhraev

      Will you come back to this extraordinary, fleeting experience at least once again? Or of all that truly was, will the lasting memory be waking in the dusk – awakening from sleep before night falls, before the coming of mortal loneliness, with the sudden, distressing realization that reality endures more memorably than any dream.

      These twilight moments are so familiar – these moments when all around becomes imperceptibly more vague and melancholy; when each joyful tree, its boisterous rustling briefly stilled and suspended from the innocent festival of life, and the purling river, too, slipping into quiet abstraction, accentuate the coming silence with their remoteness. These moments of detachment when barely lingering day yields to the clarity of night, and you seem to sense directly each tree and flower and bird – birds especially seem to sense this time of withdrawal, becoming quieter.