כשהתעוררתי במיתה

                                                      One evening, a yellowing notebook appears in my mailbox. A quick glance convinces me it has nothing at all to do with me and, as is usual in my apartment building, I pin it with a thumbtack to the modest corkboard in the entrance hall.             A week passes and the notebook remains unclaimed. I take it down from the board and into my apartment where I steal another glance at its contents. The handwriting is orderly and clear on some pages, barely legible on others. There are many crossed out passages and a lot of scribbled remarks scattered over and in the main text. I realize it is an old and unusual diary – what is written in it verges on the being unbelievable. For reasons I cannot share, I have to assume that whoever put it in my mailbox had been hoping I woul...