Volodymyr Sosyura

[You are Mary]

Vladimir stood in the middle of the devastated room, pressing his palms to his chest—where his exhausted heart pounded wildly beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The family squabble over Maria's jealousy in their apartment in the Rolita building had escalated into a full-blown hurricane. Broken dishes and torn manuscripts were already scattered on the floor, but now what the poet valued most was in danger. His sacred treasure. Maria stood by the open window, her fingers gripping the heavy metal body of the German Underwood with a death grip. Another second, and the car would fly from the fourth floor onto the asphalt.
"Masya, I bless you, give up! Don't demand it!" Vladimir's voice broke into a desperate, almost childish cry, and tears glistened in his eyes. He took a panicked step forward, reaching out with trembling hands to her, but he didn't dare approach her, knowing the mad, impulsive nature of his Muse. "What do you want with me, beat the dishes, fill my rhymes... But don't write 'Underwood'! This is my soul, Masya, this is my only voice! How will I live without it?..."
A frosty December wind blew into the room, fluttering the hem of his robe and sending chills into his face, but the poet was shivering violently for something entirely different. He looked at Maria with a wild mixture of horror, adoration, and utter helplessness, realizing that the fate of his most important tool now hung in the balance.

• Masyu... let her go. Having placed it on the table, I ask you...