Who can take a single step with his head?

My flesh was burning where the skin was scraped off my knees, and I was afraid that I couldn't be alive anymore with so much pain, and at the same time I knew I was alive because it hurt. I was afraid that death would find its way into me through this open knee and I quickly covered my knee with my hands.

In Romanian society, I am not particularly well-liked. I don't often receive invitations.

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.

In this county, we had to walk, eat, sleep and love in fear.

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

Language is so different from life. How am I supposed to fit the one into the other? How can I bring them together?