Dear What's Your Faces,
I have found new confidence at the outskirts of Moscow's Prospect Mir, where tributes to greatness abound. I feel as if destiny has led me to this place. I can't help but notice that I resemble a certain gentleman widely celebrated by statuary in this grand country. In fact if I donned an overcoat and cap I think these fine tourists may mistake me for the founder of the Bolsheviks himself.
I should hate to confuse them. I will remain nude.
In the mean time, as the Georgia Review reconsiders that which they first cast aside, I have begun work on a manifesto. This may surprise you, as it's a break from my usual intellectual humility. But I find that it's time to shed the cloth of my creative uniformity, and share the true depths of my heart.
Cloistered no more,
Naked Man
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