I'm getting closer to that line
the bright line of the horizon
where all pain dissolves.
I'm the only traveller
flying in this dark cold night
where no hope is left.
I'm getting closer to that point
the vantage point of the galaxy
where all wars come to an end.
I'm heading for this fall alone
swimming through sunken suns
and aching planets.
As I plunge into the pitch-black abyss,
fiery comets start haunting me,
pushing me towards blazing supernovas
and super-massive black holes.
The universe erupts in glaring lights
dazzling my teary eyes.
Everything is illuminated and boiling
yet, blood is freezing in my veins
and my breath turns into icicles.
I'm falling faster and faster now.
Worlds are exploding all around me
as the smell of gunpowder and burnt stardust
fills my lungs with dying wishes.
I scream out my pain
but no one can hear me
and my scream breaks into sharp pieces
echoing back to me
piercing my untouched hips
my cold pale lips
my barren chest.
As I'm dying with the speed of light
I can almost hear the sound of stellar birth
getting louder
and louder.
Come, love, pull the black veil of death
over my fragile shoulders
and smash my bones to the ground.
Split me into millions of fragments
of cosmic dust
and scatter me into
infinity.
(first published in October 2009 on http://luiza82.deviantart.com/art/Dying-with-the-speed-of-light-141619863)
Wednesday 16 October 2013
The Day You'll Find Me
I've got a ticket to your concert today.
You've been travelling half the world to meet me. You just don't know it yet. But I do. I do.
As I step into the concert hall, my knees begin to melt slowly. When I finally reach my seat, my body is already quivering from head to toe. This is the moment I've been waiting for all my life.
I couldn't have chosen a better spot. I'm right in front of the stage, merely two meters away from where you're going to play your guitar like no one else has ever played before.
The lights fade away and your band enters the stage in a thunderous burst of applause. Everyone is shouting the lead singer's name but I cannot see anything but you in front of my teary eyes.
I'm watching you as you approach with your bass guitar held tightly in your left hand. Your shy brown eyes look down at the floor, avoiding any possible eye contact and your skin is so incredibly pale that you seem to be on the verge of losing your conscience. With your curvy reddish lips and messy silky dark hair, you resemble a romantic poet caught up in a world where no one could possibly understand him. I cannot take my eyes off of you, for I've never seen so much sadness and so much beauty in one man before.
The first songs are some of your most popular singles. The whole concert hall vibrates with guitar riffs and drum beats. The audience is dazzled by the performance, but I am too lost in your music to hear them out. I am lustfully breathing your rhythmic bass sounds while I am staring at your long fingers passionately plucking the guitar strings.
As the show gets closer and closer to its climax, you plunge deeper and deeper into your inner musical world. I'm watching your body being completely swept away by an overwhelming emotion. Your limbs start shaking more and more nervously as all the muscles on your face get tenser and tenser. You don't follow the melody line anymore. Instead, you break the rhythm and burst into a hypnotic beat that leaves your band puzzled. People start whispering, confused by the sudden twist of the performance. The lead guitarist puts down his guitar and retreats in a shady corner, baffled by your behaviour. You're so caught up in a trance state of mind that he doesn't even dare interrupt you. At first, the drummer manages to keep up with your tempo but not for long because your music is now so chaotic that no one in the concert hall can follow you anymore. Your colleagues leave the scene in shock, while the chattering becomes louder and louder around me. Everything is on fire. The air smells like smoke and ashes, like love and blood. People are starting to rush for the exit doors. They cannot bare this frenzy anymore.
Suddenly, you throw the guitar on the floor and turn instinctively towards the piano in the shadiest corner of the stage. Not even bothering to seat down, you let your hands move spontaneously over the piano keys, touching them with outbursts of passion and fury.
I don't recall experiencing a feeling so intense before in my life. I couldn't keep the track of time but at a certain moment I find myself alone with you in the concert hall. I'm watching you leaning over the piano and playing the music of your heart as if you're playing the last song of your life. As if you have finally found a way to free your feelings, to express your emotions, to cry out your delusions, your fears, your failures.
You haven't noticed me yet. Your eyes are still closed and lost in your magic world that no one completely understands. Except me. Not only do I relate to everything that you are, but for me, your music speaks the language of my blood. I feel your rhythm, uneven as it is, echoing the pounding of my heart. Here is the only place where I feel alive: in between your sound beats, in between your heart beats.
Your piano play gets so hectic and your gestures so heated, that I fear that you'll end up collapsing. I am just about to stand up and run to you, to stop you from killing yourself but, at that very moment, you suddenly let your fingers finish abruptly the flow of the song and you head silently towards the centre of the stage.
You look just like a sad angel, with your skin so pale and your cheeks flushed by the deepest human emotions. Right before reaching the edge, you fall on your knees with tears streaming down your face. We are so close now that I can even smell the scent of your feverish body. For a moment, I think I'm about to swoon. My heart is beating so fast that I can feel it in every inch of my shivering body. The last thing that I remember is you, opening your tearful eyes and looking at me with the most beautiful eyes that I've ever seen.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I open my eyes slowly. My sight is almost entirely blurry and all I can think is: "Where are you? I cannot lose you now. I've just found you." As I regain conscience, I feel a warm hand gently caressing my cold cheeks. I open my eyes as widely as possible and I see you, leaning over me and holding me in your arms. The veil of sadness has been lifted from your angelic face. We are at a loss for words but your eyes, the most beautiful eyes ever imagined, they are talking to me in all the languages of the world:
- "It is you, the one that I've been looking for so desperately."
- "I knew you'd find me. I've been waiting for you since forever."
- "It is only you who understands me."
- "It is only you who sings the music of my dreams."
- "I'll never leave you. I could never leave you. My blood is flowing in your veins."
- "I'll never doubt you. I could never doubt you. My heart is beating in your chest."
(first published in November 2009 on http://luiza82.deviantart.com/art/The-day-you-ll-find-me-143895300)
You've been travelling half the world to meet me. You just don't know it yet. But I do. I do.
As I step into the concert hall, my knees begin to melt slowly. When I finally reach my seat, my body is already quivering from head to toe. This is the moment I've been waiting for all my life.
I couldn't have chosen a better spot. I'm right in front of the stage, merely two meters away from where you're going to play your guitar like no one else has ever played before.
The lights fade away and your band enters the stage in a thunderous burst of applause. Everyone is shouting the lead singer's name but I cannot see anything but you in front of my teary eyes.
I'm watching you as you approach with your bass guitar held tightly in your left hand. Your shy brown eyes look down at the floor, avoiding any possible eye contact and your skin is so incredibly pale that you seem to be on the verge of losing your conscience. With your curvy reddish lips and messy silky dark hair, you resemble a romantic poet caught up in a world where no one could possibly understand him. I cannot take my eyes off of you, for I've never seen so much sadness and so much beauty in one man before.
The first songs are some of your most popular singles. The whole concert hall vibrates with guitar riffs and drum beats. The audience is dazzled by the performance, but I am too lost in your music to hear them out. I am lustfully breathing your rhythmic bass sounds while I am staring at your long fingers passionately plucking the guitar strings.
As the show gets closer and closer to its climax, you plunge deeper and deeper into your inner musical world. I'm watching your body being completely swept away by an overwhelming emotion. Your limbs start shaking more and more nervously as all the muscles on your face get tenser and tenser. You don't follow the melody line anymore. Instead, you break the rhythm and burst into a hypnotic beat that leaves your band puzzled. People start whispering, confused by the sudden twist of the performance. The lead guitarist puts down his guitar and retreats in a shady corner, baffled by your behaviour. You're so caught up in a trance state of mind that he doesn't even dare interrupt you. At first, the drummer manages to keep up with your tempo but not for long because your music is now so chaotic that no one in the concert hall can follow you anymore. Your colleagues leave the scene in shock, while the chattering becomes louder and louder around me. Everything is on fire. The air smells like smoke and ashes, like love and blood. People are starting to rush for the exit doors. They cannot bare this frenzy anymore.
Suddenly, you throw the guitar on the floor and turn instinctively towards the piano in the shadiest corner of the stage. Not even bothering to seat down, you let your hands move spontaneously over the piano keys, touching them with outbursts of passion and fury.
I don't recall experiencing a feeling so intense before in my life. I couldn't keep the track of time but at a certain moment I find myself alone with you in the concert hall. I'm watching you leaning over the piano and playing the music of your heart as if you're playing the last song of your life. As if you have finally found a way to free your feelings, to express your emotions, to cry out your delusions, your fears, your failures.
You haven't noticed me yet. Your eyes are still closed and lost in your magic world that no one completely understands. Except me. Not only do I relate to everything that you are, but for me, your music speaks the language of my blood. I feel your rhythm, uneven as it is, echoing the pounding of my heart. Here is the only place where I feel alive: in between your sound beats, in between your heart beats.
Your piano play gets so hectic and your gestures so heated, that I fear that you'll end up collapsing. I am just about to stand up and run to you, to stop you from killing yourself but, at that very moment, you suddenly let your fingers finish abruptly the flow of the song and you head silently towards the centre of the stage.
You look just like a sad angel, with your skin so pale and your cheeks flushed by the deepest human emotions. Right before reaching the edge, you fall on your knees with tears streaming down your face. We are so close now that I can even smell the scent of your feverish body. For a moment, I think I'm about to swoon. My heart is beating so fast that I can feel it in every inch of my shivering body. The last thing that I remember is you, opening your tearful eyes and looking at me with the most beautiful eyes that I've ever seen.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I open my eyes slowly. My sight is almost entirely blurry and all I can think is: "Where are you? I cannot lose you now. I've just found you." As I regain conscience, I feel a warm hand gently caressing my cold cheeks. I open my eyes as widely as possible and I see you, leaning over me and holding me in your arms. The veil of sadness has been lifted from your angelic face. We are at a loss for words but your eyes, the most beautiful eyes ever imagined, they are talking to me in all the languages of the world:
- "It is you, the one that I've been looking for so desperately."
- "I knew you'd find me. I've been waiting for you since forever."
- "It is only you who understands me."
- "It is only you who sings the music of my dreams."
- "I'll never leave you. I could never leave you. My blood is flowing in your veins."
- "I'll never doubt you. I could never doubt you. My heart is beating in your chest."
(first published in November 2009 on http://luiza82.deviantart.com/art/The-day-you-ll-find-me-143895300)
Format ME: ENTER
I was a free space, they were the locked rooms.
I was an open book, they were the encrypted scrolls.
I was an endless river, they were the standing rocks.
I was a compass pointing all directions, they were the settings suns.
I reached for circles, they gave me squares.
I gave them stars, they sent me light bulbs.
I was a warm nearness, they were the frozen North Poles.
I called them poetic names, they tagged me with a military ID.
I showed them never-ending roads, they lured me into dead-ends.
I was a key.
They were throwing walls at me.
A key can open doors, not walls.
So
I stop
and
forget
who I am.
Forget
the circles
the stars
the poetry
the open spaces
the endless river.
I'm not a key.
I am the walls you threw at me.
(first published in December 2009 on http://luiza82.deviantart.com/art/Format-ME-ENTER-146401927)
I was an open book, they were the encrypted scrolls.
I was an endless river, they were the standing rocks.
I was a compass pointing all directions, they were the settings suns.
I reached for circles, they gave me squares.
I gave them stars, they sent me light bulbs.
I was a warm nearness, they were the frozen North Poles.
I called them poetic names, they tagged me with a military ID.
I showed them never-ending roads, they lured me into dead-ends.
I was a key.
They were throwing walls at me.
A key can open doors, not walls.
So
I stop
and
forget
who I am.
Forget
the circles
the stars
the poetry
the open spaces
the endless river.
I'm not a key.
I am the walls you threw at me.
(first published in December 2009 on http://luiza82.deviantart.com/art/Format-ME-ENTER-146401927)
The problem with Edward
Whether we're talking about Edward Cullen (Twilight) or Edward Scissorhands, what we're actually talking about is the "Edward" type of man.
So what makes this Edward type?
Some people would think that it's all about the looks. Edward has deep dark eyes, messy silky dark hair, reddish lips and cold pale skin. The general features of his body, delicate to the point of being perceived as feminine, indicate a rather fragile character. In fact, Edward is much stronger than we could imagine just by looking at him and his strength comes from the inside.
Some others would think that it's all about the feelings. Edward not only experiences intense feelings and emotions, but he displays them. He falls in love madly and irrevocably. He would never stop believing in true love and this is why he is never afraid to risk anything for it. He is kind, gentle and romantic to the point of being considered naive and cheesy. Actually, his innocence comes from a genuinely pure heart.
If we sum up all these elements, we can easily conclude that what really makes Edward a self-contained type of man could be condensed in one single word: DIFFERENT. Yes, Edward is different from most men in so many ways. And I'm not talking about having scissors instead of hands or feeding on human blood. And it's not about the looks, for these could be deceiving. He may look feminine, though he triggers an incredible sexual attraction in women. He may look frail, though he's capable of great acts of courage when his love is in danger. He may look strange because very few of us can relate to his way of loving and living. This is why he always seems like he's coming from outer-space or at least from a long-forgotten romantic age. In fact, Edward strives for understanding but what is really essential about him is that he believes in soul-mates and he would do literally anything to find and keep his girl protected.
So, if this Edward is such a special and perfect guy, what's the problem with him? Why is it so difficult for him to find his happiness?
First of all, he doesn't seem to be "man enough" for most of the modern girls.
Reaction type 1: "Are you serious? Just look at him. He looks/thinks like a woman. How can he pretend to be a man?"
However, many of these girls will desperately need an Edward at least once in their lifetime, after they will have had enough of the vanity, indifference, deceiving, lust and all the other attributes of the much-adored hunky modern man.
Second of all, he's just too good to be true and after a while, he becomes boring.
Reaction type 2: "Oh, I would love a man like that. Actually, I did have an Edward once but it didn't work. You see, he was too good for me. I needed something else."
So, even if some of us had the rare chance of having an Edward in our life, we thought that he was too dreamy and unrealistic and maybe a bit too romantic for our world.
So what are the odds for Edward to find his half? Because there is still another problem:
If you eliminate all the type 1 and type 2 girls and if you admit that the very few left who might really need an Edward could be on the other side of the Earth, speaking a different language and living in a totally different culture, you can easily figure that our strange sensitive Edward has almost no chance whatsoever to fulfill his purpose in this life. Because yes, this is the real problem with Edward: he cannot live only for the sake of wealth, power, career, popularity or pleasure. All these mean nothing to him if he doesn't have his beloved one next to him.
I think what I'm trying to say is that, whether you are an Edward or a girl waiting for an Edward, whether you believe in fate or in coincidences, never stop believing in each other because you know it just like I know it that nothing else in this world would fill your heart with happiness. Most of all, nothing else in this world is worth all the loneliness, the pain and the desperate search. True love, it's all about true love, from the very beginning till the very end.
(first published in November 2009 on http://luiza82.deviantart.com/art/The-problem-with-Edward-143991948)
Monday 31 October 2011
Sunday 26 December 2010
10 lucruri de neuitat din 2010
1. Parcul Ioanid acoperit de zapada pe 4 ianuarie
2. O pereche de manusi primite in dar de la mii de km distanta (Glove love)
3. The Parlotones in concert la Siver Church
4. Un sarut in februarie
5. Roma
6. Muse in concert la Sziget Festival
7. Chisinaul
8. Dansand in Club Mojo cu iubitul meu
9. Capitalele statelor africane
10. Mic-dejunurile delicioase alaturi de iubitul meu
2. O pereche de manusi primite in dar de la mii de km distanta (Glove love)
3. The Parlotones in concert la Siver Church
4. Un sarut in februarie
5. Roma
6. Muse in concert la Sziget Festival
7. Chisinaul
8. Dansand in Club Mojo cu iubitul meu
9. Capitalele statelor africane
10. Mic-dejunurile delicioase alaturi de iubitul meu
Sunday 5 December 2010
Orașul citește - Lecturi urbane
Mereu am iubit cărţile însă cele de care mă îndrăgosteam iremediabil erau cărţile deja citite de altcineva înaintea mea. A deschide o carte care poartă amprentele degetelor care le-au răsfoit pline de curiozitate, însemnările celor care le-au subliniat cu pasiune sau lacrimile celor care le-au trăit din toată fiinţa, este un gest sacru pentru mine.
Aşa se explică bucuria stârnită în mine când am aflat de proiectul de promovare a lecturii denumit "Lecturi urbane". De curând am citit despre el pe facebook iar azi mă pot mândri că am pus şi eu umărul la evoluţia acestei campanii culturale care se află deja la a doisprezecea ediţie în Bucureşti.
Ştiam doar că pe 22 noiembrie, la ora 19, trebuie să fiu la staţia de metrou Piaţa Victoriei, pe peronul de plecare înspre Pipera. Am ajuns acolo plină de entuziasm şi emoţie. Mă întrebam dacă chiar se va aduna suficientă lume sau dacă va fi încă una dintre încercările eşuate de a mobiliza oamenii pentru un scop nobil (spre exemplu, cum au fost multe dintre flash-mob-urile organizate la noi). Din fericire, de această dată, peronul fremăta de tineri. Am observat că unii dintre ei aveau niște sacoșe mari din care scoteau cărți și le împărțeau celorlalți. M-am strecurat și eu prin mulțime și am întrebat cum pot să ajut. Un băiat brunet și foarte săritor m-a întrebat dacă vreau doar să citesc îm metrou sau dacă vreau să și promovez campania. Am răspuns că ambele. Mi-a deschis larg sacoșa cu cărți și mi-a spus să iau câte vreau. Parcă priveam într-un cufăr cu comori neprețuite. Am băgat mâna înăuntru și am prins aleator două cărți: una foarte groasă - Mihail Sadoveanu: Opere alese - și una cu coperte verzi foarte frumoase - Kafka: Procesul.
Am auzit metroul apropiindu-se de peron. Am auzit liderii de echipă dând semnalul de urcare în vagon. L-am întrebat pe unul dintre ei ce am de făcut. Mi-a spus să vin cu ei și să fiu atentă la cum procedează ei. Am urcat emoționată. Trenul era aproape gol. Erau mai mulți de-ai noștri decât călători. Toți țineau cărțile deschise și citeau. Am deschis și eu cartea cea groasă a lui Mihail Sadoveanu și am început să citesc, în picioare, rezemată de perete. În același timp, trăgeam cu ochiul la ceilalți. Prima abordare la care am asistat a fost sortită eșecului. Unul dintre băieții din grup a înmânat o carte unui bărbat la vreo cincizeci de ani care stătea pe un scaun. Acesta mai întâi nici nu a vrut să apuce cartea. Până la urmă, a primit-o dar l-a privit suspicios pe băiatul care i-a dat cartea și l-a întrebat în ce scop i-a dat-o. Acesta i-a explicat câteva cuvinte despre campania de lectură, dar omul nu a încetat să fie suspicios. A răsfoit puțin cartea, vizibil neliniștit și neconvins, după care a întins-o înapoi băiatului, spunându-i că mai bine o dă altcuiva, pentru că el nu citește cărți. Privindu-l cum iese pe ușa metroului, am rămas cu un gust amar. Oare chiar nu mai suntem capabili să credem în nimic frumos, neinteresat, curat?
Din fericire, următoarea experiență avea să-mi redea speranța. Am dăruit unei tinere cartea de Mihail Sadoveanu, iar aceasta mi-a zâmbit timid și mi-a mulțumit recunoscător. Inima îmi bătea repede și simțeam ca sunt pe cale să-mi curgă lacrimi. Am ieșit din metrou cu mândria că am făcut și eu un gest nobil, neinteresat și curat. Am ajuns acasă și am început să-i povestesc cu entuziasm mamei despre experiența trăită. Reacția ei m-a descurajat din nou. Mi-a spus că ea nu ar fi acceptat cartea pentru că s-ar fi gândit că e un scop politic la mijloc. Îmi venea să plâng de supărare. De ce oamenii de peste o anumită vârstă nu se mai pot bucura de lucrurile mici și frumoase ale vieții? De ce nu mai pot crede în bunătate și altruism? Oare cum pot fi ajutați să creadă din nou?
Partea frumoasă este că eu știu că acel gest de a dărui o carte și de a încuraja lectura chiar a fost un gest gratuit, făcut din inimă. Eu cred în altruism, fata care mi-a primit cartea crede și ea, la fel ca mulți alții asemenea nouă. Noi trebuie să transmitem mai departe această încredere, această speranță, această candoare. Poate data viitoare vom reuși să aducem un zâmbet pe fața unui om care altădată nu ar fi putut accepta un gest atât de nevinovat precum dăruirea unei cărți.
PS Am păstrat romanul lui Kafka. Acum îl citesc în metrou, pe drum spre birou iar după ce îl termin, am să-l dau mai departe. :-)
Aşa se explică bucuria stârnită în mine când am aflat de proiectul de promovare a lecturii denumit "Lecturi urbane". De curând am citit despre el pe facebook iar azi mă pot mândri că am pus şi eu umărul la evoluţia acestei campanii culturale care se află deja la a doisprezecea ediţie în Bucureşti.
Ştiam doar că pe 22 noiembrie, la ora 19, trebuie să fiu la staţia de metrou Piaţa Victoriei, pe peronul de plecare înspre Pipera. Am ajuns acolo plină de entuziasm şi emoţie. Mă întrebam dacă chiar se va aduna suficientă lume sau dacă va fi încă una dintre încercările eşuate de a mobiliza oamenii pentru un scop nobil (spre exemplu, cum au fost multe dintre flash-mob-urile organizate la noi). Din fericire, de această dată, peronul fremăta de tineri. Am observat că unii dintre ei aveau niște sacoșe mari din care scoteau cărți și le împărțeau celorlalți. M-am strecurat și eu prin mulțime și am întrebat cum pot să ajut. Un băiat brunet și foarte săritor m-a întrebat dacă vreau doar să citesc îm metrou sau dacă vreau să și promovez campania. Am răspuns că ambele. Mi-a deschis larg sacoșa cu cărți și mi-a spus să iau câte vreau. Parcă priveam într-un cufăr cu comori neprețuite. Am băgat mâna înăuntru și am prins aleator două cărți: una foarte groasă - Mihail Sadoveanu: Opere alese - și una cu coperte verzi foarte frumoase - Kafka: Procesul.
Am auzit metroul apropiindu-se de peron. Am auzit liderii de echipă dând semnalul de urcare în vagon. L-am întrebat pe unul dintre ei ce am de făcut. Mi-a spus să vin cu ei și să fiu atentă la cum procedează ei. Am urcat emoționată. Trenul era aproape gol. Erau mai mulți de-ai noștri decât călători. Toți țineau cărțile deschise și citeau. Am deschis și eu cartea cea groasă a lui Mihail Sadoveanu și am început să citesc, în picioare, rezemată de perete. În același timp, trăgeam cu ochiul la ceilalți. Prima abordare la care am asistat a fost sortită eșecului. Unul dintre băieții din grup a înmânat o carte unui bărbat la vreo cincizeci de ani care stătea pe un scaun. Acesta mai întâi nici nu a vrut să apuce cartea. Până la urmă, a primit-o dar l-a privit suspicios pe băiatul care i-a dat cartea și l-a întrebat în ce scop i-a dat-o. Acesta i-a explicat câteva cuvinte despre campania de lectură, dar omul nu a încetat să fie suspicios. A răsfoit puțin cartea, vizibil neliniștit și neconvins, după care a întins-o înapoi băiatului, spunându-i că mai bine o dă altcuiva, pentru că el nu citește cărți. Privindu-l cum iese pe ușa metroului, am rămas cu un gust amar. Oare chiar nu mai suntem capabili să credem în nimic frumos, neinteresat, curat?
Din fericire, următoarea experiență avea să-mi redea speranța. Am dăruit unei tinere cartea de Mihail Sadoveanu, iar aceasta mi-a zâmbit timid și mi-a mulțumit recunoscător. Inima îmi bătea repede și simțeam ca sunt pe cale să-mi curgă lacrimi. Am ieșit din metrou cu mândria că am făcut și eu un gest nobil, neinteresat și curat. Am ajuns acasă și am început să-i povestesc cu entuziasm mamei despre experiența trăită. Reacția ei m-a descurajat din nou. Mi-a spus că ea nu ar fi acceptat cartea pentru că s-ar fi gândit că e un scop politic la mijloc. Îmi venea să plâng de supărare. De ce oamenii de peste o anumită vârstă nu se mai pot bucura de lucrurile mici și frumoase ale vieții? De ce nu mai pot crede în bunătate și altruism? Oare cum pot fi ajutați să creadă din nou?
Partea frumoasă este că eu știu că acel gest de a dărui o carte și de a încuraja lectura chiar a fost un gest gratuit, făcut din inimă. Eu cred în altruism, fata care mi-a primit cartea crede și ea, la fel ca mulți alții asemenea nouă. Noi trebuie să transmitem mai departe această încredere, această speranță, această candoare. Poate data viitoare vom reuși să aducem un zâmbet pe fața unui om care altădată nu ar fi putut accepta un gest atât de nevinovat precum dăruirea unei cărți.
PS Am păstrat romanul lui Kafka. Acum îl citesc în metrou, pe drum spre birou iar după ce îl termin, am să-l dau mai departe. :-)
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