There are only two loaves of bread. She climbs on a chair and hangs herself. No one comes to her funeral. I know that there are girls down here. Girls like Tsvetaeva.
Girls live under the earth.
They put dirt inside each other's mouths, eat out the same dirt with their lips. For Tsvetaeva, there were only poets. That's all she could be. Poets and then a dark mass, all other people, society. How she thought was the only way her life could be.