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

Once upon a time they had some bad luck, and they blame everything on that.

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.

I have packed myself into silence so deeply and for so long that I can never unpack myself using words. When I speak, I only pack myself a little differently.

Only the demented would not have raised their hands in the great hall. They had exchanged fear for insanity".

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

What can be said about chronic hunger. Perhaps that there's a hunger that can make you sick with hunger. That it comes in addition to the hunger you already feel. That there is a hunger which is always new, which grows insatiably, which pounces on the never-ending old hunger that already took such effort to tame. How can you face the world if all you can say about yourself is that you're hungry.