In Romanian society, I am not particularly well-liked. I don't often receive invitations.
To combat death you don't need much of a life, just one that isn't yet finished.
Suffering doesn't improve human beings, does it?
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.
Once upon a time they had some bad luck, and they blame everything on that.
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.