As if I were, after all that I've gone through, able to give a reasonable account of anything. His name is Micho. Recalling that he lives in Croatia, and I in Serbia, is painful for me. But perhaps I don't actually live in Serbia. It doesn't matter.
Life is miserable no matter what.
If I were dead I wouldn't be able to tell you this. Or perhaps I would. When it comes to writing, words can come out of the mouth of a dead man, and they never tell lies. So perhaps I actually am dead. But I am still able to tell my story.