Is it this strange weather? The knowing of an end? The tragedy that befalls the underserving, so horrible that it is infinite? For days pressure builds behind my eyes, and the skin around my eyebrows flake and disintegrate. Windows of my home rattle, the temperature drops by thirty degrees. On my way to the airport, in the dim-lighted metro, a violinist and accordionist play “Dark Eyes” and an old man walking past me croons the lyrics back (Очи чёрные…очи страстные…). I was startled, but I am reluctant to say why—reticent about the truth, fearing it cannot be understood, but worst of all… fearing that it can.