The Black Monk

It was Chekhov's High Noon. The admission of craziness.
Following the Dark Maestro of creativity into the woods,
a questioning of how society makes people act.
And for Chekhov, just as he mocked the theater in his own stories,
he wrote of nothing good coming out of this questioning,
but rather the opposite.
Cool, cold and calm Chekhov,
a skewering of the poetic as the product of a diseased mind.
He had himself the same feverish disease
that leads Kovrin to follow the fabled hallucination.
Stories happen, I suppose, even when you exactly don't want them to,
a weird reality of life.