Există ceva după moarte? Există? Sau trăim degeaba? Daca viața se termină cu moarte, n-ar trebui ca moartea să înceapă cu viață? Are rost măcar să scriu asta? Va citi cineva vreodată cuvintele scrijelite în jurnalele pe care continui să le ard rând pe rând? Nimic nu are logică. Nimic. Dar poate viața n-a fost făcută să aibă logică. Atât de multe întrebări...
"I burned so long so quiet you must have wondered
if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do."
"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief."
he/him
welcome to my world, new old friend
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