[Prophetic dream... Tsepilovo. A clearing in our forest. The sun is setting down behind big oaks. I am sitting on a stump in an agony of grief though I cannot realise why.

Suddenly I see a figure against the backdrop of the setting sun. Somebody is approaching me and I am not surprised to see my deceased father. He is wearing hunting overalls.]

Wringing my hands I slipped of the stump and went on knees. "Daddy! It's intolerably hard, Daddy! For how long will I be able to bear those sufferings? Carry me out!"

He sadly looked at me and said a single word, "Eight." Darkness is slowly covering the forest and the clearing. I hear only rustle of leaves. The sound of steps faded and I woke up.

Eight of what? Years? Days? Weeks?

...It proved to be exactly eight months between the day I took a scythe and went to the hayfield for the first time and the night when I threw the axe under the stairs of the administrative office and escaped to the taiga. Mysticism? Coincidence?