Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.

Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive.

Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.

My plays are made up of long monologues, which is similar to prose working with the language

After all, when you take a walk you're after solitude, and if the solitude won't come to you, you must go to it.

I do not fight against men, but against the system that is sexist.

I cannot stand public attention, I just can't. Of course, if I may I might write something instead