My back is Argus-eyed. I live in danger.

False shadows turn to track me as I pass

and, wearing beards, disguised as secret agents,

creep in to blot the freshly written page

and read the blotter in the looking glass.

And in the dark, under my bedroom window,

until, with a chill whirr and shiver, day

presses its starter, warily they linger

or silently approach the door and ring

the bell of memory and run away.

Nabokov