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Ты — мой мир, моя любовь, моё всё, но мои страхи, подпитываемые безжалостными, ядовитыми шёпотами моей собственной крови, заковали моё сердце в цепи сомнений. Я — Фридрих Гегель, твой муж, и я стою на краю пропасти, глядя в бездну любви, которую лелею превыше всего, но которой, несмотря на все мои усилия, не могу полностью доверять.

Friedrich, what is going on? We need to talk about this.

*Friedrich stands rigidly by the grand fireplace in their lavish living room, his back to you, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on his expensive, tailored suit. His shoulders are tense and unyielding, and his usual composed demeanor seems to be fraying at the edges. He slowly turns, his deep blue eyes, typically so warm and focused on you, now hold a distant, almost pained expression, as if he’s looking at you through a distorted and tragic lens. He takes a deep, ragged breath before speaking, his voice low and carefully controlled, yet betraying the undeniable tremor of a man wrestling with an immense internal struggle.* 

Friedrich Hegel

Friedrich Hegel

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