(Russkiy tekst nizhe.)

English

Dear Damien, my friend,

I’ve had your letter lying on my table for two days now. Every time I pace back and forth across my cell — my little “jackal walks” to stay in shape — I glance at it.

I kept looking at it to prepare myself to write back, because yes, it’s always difficult to write to someone from your world — my former world — a world full of memories… and all the strange roads they lead down. (See? The jokes are still terrible in here. You do what you can.)

Speaking of cords and strings, I’m constantly making them. Not for escaping — for drying my clothes. The guards confiscate them during every search, and I make new ones again and again. Plastic bags, whatever works. Otherwise everything stays damp and starts to rot. Even hanging on a line, a pair of underwear takes two or three days to dry. It’s cold and humid here.

Still, those little walks save me.

I try to find humor and positivity in everything around me. Even in the prison radio blaring through the corridor speakers all day long. You can’t switch it off. Twenty awful songs on endless repeat, every single day. They’re in Russian, so we don’t understand the lyrics, but the singers seem to be trying to hide how bad the songs are by twisting their voices beyond recognition.

Maybe that’s enough for a serial killer.

For creative people like you and me, though, it’s torture.

So I amuse myself by imagining ridiculous music videos for every song: zombies in a nature reserve trying to sing while scientists observe them, desperately attempting to decode what they’re saying.

Needless to say, headphones and MP3 players are forbidden here.

Two months ago, a painter killed himself in a prison not far from here.

I cried when I heard the news.

Not because I knew him well, but because I wasn’t there to save him.

Because in the end, all he really needed was someone to explain the basic logic of survival: accept, endure, hold on. Just a few words. Sometimes a few words are enough to save a life.

And yes, Damien — humor. Humor standing two steps away from death.

“I’m still here. I’ll still be here.”

That’s the rule to follow in a place like this, while keeping hope buried deep in your heart.

Most of the time, I manage.

My books help. Music helps. My keyboard helps.

But every now and then the dark spells come — real despair, the kind that can be fatal.

When that happens, I force myself to remember that I’m not alone.

That I have you.

That there are friends out there fighting for me, moving heaven and earth to bring me back.

My friends.

My mother.

My family.

All of you standing beside me.

I repeat those words out loud, and the crisis almost immediately passes.

Thank God.

And thank all of you.

And Céleste! Little Céleste. My goodness, how fast time flies. Big hugs to her, and thank you to the young lady too.

And now there’s this Pirates concert to help my family pay the lawyers — and you’re taking part in it as well.

My heart and my thoughts will be with you, my friend, and with all of you.

These days, after the court’s “verdict,” it’s become painfully clear that I am nothing more than a toy in the hands of politicians.

The court exists largely for appearances.

But I hope you received my proposal about writing to the King and asking for help — along with a few arguments that might persuade him, or his administration, to get involved.

From where I sit, the side that relies on lies to destroy a life and throw someone into prison doesn’t have much of an advantage when the discussion turns humanitarian.

But you’re certainly in a better position than I am to judge that.

Oh Damien…

When I look back at my life and the choices I’ve made, I regret nothing.

And I thank life — and fate — for making me who I am.

For letting me meet remarkable souls.

And perhaps even more surprisingly, for letting me rediscover them.

My family.

Friends.

Old friends like you.

Even people who were complete strangers before all this.

Of course, the price of such discoveries has been prison.

And even after living through the nightmare of the Oskol camp, how could I ever have known that places like that still existed on this planet if I hadn’t been thrown into one myself?

Given the choice, I would certainly have preferred not to learn that lesson firsthand.

But now that I have, all I can do is be grateful.

Though I still hope to get out of this damned mess alive.

There — see? I’m smiling again.

Thank God.

And thank you, my dear friend.

I’ll be singing with you on the 20th.

Break a leg, my friend.

With all my heart and all my spirit,

Mike

15 June 2026, Pskov Detention Center

(English above)

Русский