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A conversation with Aleksander Hardashnakov


I woke in the night and listened to the lake lap against rocks, the call of the loon. Every note sustained. What year is it anyway. Now I’m awake, waiting for morning.




I woke after years spent in my own hell. I had to submit. She met me where I was. I woke with tears of joy, thankful to have been broken. I have lived for hundreds maybe thousands of years.



I woke a small brown dry leaf. After the winter thawing by sun in the early days of spring. Trembling in the wind. Full of holes, barely clinging to the stem