Fragment

A loud voice awakened me in the night.  For several seconds (how many?) my heart stopped beating.  This was the beginning; from now on everything would be different.  The Voice spoke again and I listened.  It said: “You are the Messiah.”  And I believed It.
    The next night I did not sleep at all.  I asked aloud: “Why ‘the Messiah’? The only people who call themselves that now are lunatics.  Why not something else?”  “You are the Messiah,” It repeated.  From now on the Voice was no longer somewhere beside me or in the next room.  It was in me.  When It wanted to speak to others, It became one with my voice, which sounded deeper and more profound.  This was noted by others.
    Bombs exploded in Russia and there was much destruction.  But no one was waiting for the Messiah, least of all in Moscow, where I live, that Temple to the Idol of Happiness.  No, the people of Moscow, bewitched by the Idol’s golden, coin-like eyes, were too busy racing to his celebration.  They wanted only one thing: to fling themselves into his arms.  But the Idol didn’t have any arms—and it didn’t stay in the same place long.  The only thing the Idol of Happiness cared about was running about town, moving fast.  His celebration kept close behind him, breathing down his neck.  But this discouraged no one; every day millions of Muscovites tore about the streets, trying desperately to apprehend him.