To combat death you don't need much of a life, just one that isn't yet finished.

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.

Writing itself does not know what it looks like while one is doing it, only when it's finished.

If you live with death threats, you need friends. So you have to risk that they might spy on you.

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.

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

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