No， I Can"t； Let It Be without Headings！
Evening. It is somewhat foggy. The sky is covered with a milky-golden tissue， and one cannot see what is there， beyond， on the heights. The ancients "knew" that the greatest， bored skeptic-their god-lived there. We know that crystalline， blue， naked， indecent .Nothing is there. I no longer know what is there. I have learned too many things of late. Knowledge， self-confident knowledge， which is sure that it is faultless， is faith. I had firm faith in myself； I believed that I knew all about myself. But then...I look in the mirror. And for the first time in my life， yes，for the first time in my life I see clearly， precisely， consciously and with surprise， I see myself as some "him"！ I am "he." Frowning， black， straight brows； between them， like a scar， there is a vertical wrinkle. （Was that wrinkle there before？） Steel-gray eyes encircled by the shadow of a sleepless night. And behind that steel...I understand； I never knew before what there was behind that steel. From there （this "there" is at once so near and so infinitely distant！） I look at myself—at "him." And I know surely that "he" with his straight brows is a stranger， that I meet him here for the first time in my life. The real I is not he.
No. Period. All this is nonsense. And all these foolish emotions are only delirium， the result of last night"s poisoning....Poisoning with what？ With a sip of that green poison， or with her？ It matters little. I write all this merely in order to demonstrate how strangely confused our precise and sharp human reason may become. This reason， strong enough to make infinity， which the ancients feared so much， understandable by means of....The switch buzzes. "Number R-13." Well， I am even glad； alone I should...
Twenty minutes later：
On the plane of this paper， in a world of two dimensions， these lines follow each other， but in another world they....I am losing the sense for figures...Twenty minutes！ Perhaps two hundred or two hundred thousand！...
It seems so strange， quietly， deliberately， measuring every word， to write down my adventure with R-. Imagine yourself sitting down at your own bed， crossing your legs， watching curiously how you yourself shrivel in the very same bed. My mental state is similar to that.
When R-13 came in ， I was perfectly quiet and normal. With sincere admiration I began to tell him how wonderfully he succeeded in versifying the death sentence of that insane man， and that his poem， more than anything else， had smothered and annihilated the transgressor of the law.
"More than that，" I said， "if I were ordered to prepare a mathematical draft of the Machine of the Well-Doer， I should undoubtedly， undoubtedly， put on that draft some of your verses！" Suddenly I saw R-"s eyes becoming more and more opaque， his lips acquiring a gray tint.
"What"s the matter？"
"What？ Well...Merely that I am dead sick of it. Everybody keeps on： "The death sentence， the death sentence！" I want to hear no more of it！ You understand？ I do not want..." He became serious， rubbing his neck—that little valise filled with luggage which I cannot understand. A silence. There！ He found something in that little valise of his， removed it， unwrapped it， spread it out； his eyes became covered with the varnish of laughter. He began：
"I am writing something for your Integral. Yes....I am！ " He was himself again： bubbling， sprinkling lips， words splashing like a fountain.
