I am writing this letter, bent over a piece of paper, looking like a snow-covered field, writing with convulsively shaking hands in the light of the moon. I could have written this letter in the light of a kerosene lamp, but you see, my stepfather poured gasoline into the tank, confusing it with kerosene.I was a fool, to light it, I struck a match, and it exploded like a nuclear bomb in the Fourth World War. Boom! It instantly burned a good part of my beard my moustache and half of my curly hair. When my poor stepmother saw my face, she was very scared and ran out into the street, thinking that I was a Satan. She screamed like a locomotive behind distant forests in the twilight blue, like an alarmed elephant in the jungles of distant India. We barely calmed her down. After that, so that people, especially children would not be afraid, I began to wear a welder's mask. That is why I am writing this letter to you in the moonlight, Herr Baron Munchausen, to ask your forgiveness on behalf of all mankind for the fact that we, naive fools, considered you an inveterate liar, laughed at you, bursting with laughter when you said you saved yourself from a muddy swamp, pulling your own hair. It turns out that you were telling the truth then, reminding us that no one but yourself can save you. We only realized today that we have to pull ourselves out of the bubbling swamp of our passionate desires, which lures the victim with its delicious, ripe berries, snow-white lilies, and green velvety moss, then once and for all, sucks a person in. Yes, Baron, you are right. Life is not life, but a terrible swamp and you need to walk carefully through it, with a long stick in your hands, praying not to fall into the quagmire of sins. That is, we must save ourselves from spiritual destruction by killing our desires. Spiritual death is billions of times more terrible than physical death. Do you remember, Baron, you told us about how you flew on a cannonball? It turns out that you were talking about us then, about humanity flying through space on a globe that looks awfully a lot like a cannonball. Are we flying on a cannonball and humanity is cannon fodder?! Oh, how accurately you described our days, several centuries ago, Mr. Baron! We thought you were a pathological liar. Yet you turned out to be the most truthful and honest person on our planet. Forgive us, Baron, forgive us...