I won't drink with you today, Nation.

There was a time when I drank. Even a lot. Even often. More and more, and ever more frequently. I drank and swayed, not quite to the rhythm. I drank and fell asleep, like in mother's embrace. As if father was reading fairy tales. I didn't want to stop. And then I was afraid. Of various things. That I wouldn't sleep. That I would see and hear worse. That phantoms would disappear and demons would fall silent.

Yet I stopped.

But don't think, Nation, that there will be morals here. That I will preach to you. I looked over the threshold, through the door slightly open, and watched for a while. I understand everything.

And I see phantoms more sharply, and hear demons more clearly.