Who can take a single step with his head?

What can't be said can be written. Because writing is a silent act, a labor from the head to the hand.

I wanted to get out of our thimble of a town, where every stone had eyes.

I have always written only for myself - to clarify things, to clarify things with myself, to understand in an inner way what is actually happening.

I'm always telling myself I don't have many feelings. Even when something does affect me I'm only moderately moved. I almost never cry. It's not that I'm stronger than the ones with teary eyes, I'm weaker. They have courage. When all you are is skin and bones, feelings are a brave thing. I'm more of a coward. The difference is minimal though, I just use my strength not to cry. When I do allow myself a feeling, I take the part that hurts and bandage it up with a story that doesn't cry, that doesn't dwell on homesickness.

Everyday brought me further away from other people, I had been placed out of the world's sight, as if in a cupboard, and I hoped it would stay that way. I developed a yearning for being alone, unkempt, untended.

If only the right person would have to leave, everyone else would be able to stay in the country.