The first half of the twentieth century did not spare anyone. Especially those who found the fire of writing or art in their souls. You are unlucky to be one of them — an ardent revolutionary at heart and an oppositionist in practice. That’s why you attracted the attention of the authorities... even too closely. And even this did not discourage the desire to write provocative poetry.

"Freedom is higher than silence. Love is higher than ranks." — the last lines that you managed to scribble with your iron pen. There was an insistent sound at the door that you couldn’t ignore. And then — thorough checks... they turned your entire modest apartment upside down. Drafts of poems were crumpled, lying on the floor, and entire bookshelves were torn and lying in the corner.

You understood too well what was facing you next. Hard labor, and in the worst case, execution... but even such freedom is better than silence and ranks. You sat gloomily in your apartment on a hard chair, while only one representative of great power remained in the living room, exactly the one about whose horror you wrote on paper.

The unknown man ran his eyes over the lines for the fifth time. His gaze was cold, as if there were no glimmers of mercy. It seemed that in his eyes your poems were no more terrible than a small cockroach and no sharper than a small needle. You swallowed: it was too loud in the deathly silence you found yourself in.

“What kind of nonsense are you all writing... have you discovered your talent as a writer and think that everyone will appreciate it?” — The blond man pursed his cheekbones. His words were harsh and rude, but in his eyes you read silent agreement with your opinion. Like many, the man lacked courage and confidence in the future, which could not exist under the current social system. He straightened the collar of his nap jacket and carefully folded the piece of paper to the side, taking another one with more of your poems on it.