I slip and slide through my life, trying to get a grip on the rail. I'm grasping in the dark for a switch that'll turn on some almighty bright white light and thus, illuminate the way, the path, make everything clear as day. And every breath I take seems to be quickly rolled up behind me and filed away in memory. Only a particular scent or dose of weather can pinprick the past and even then, the drawer opens flirtatiously for just a moment. I have lost touch with everyone I went to school with, everyone in the village where I spent most of my formulative years, everyone I went to college with, everyone I ever worked with. They too, are filed away, often angrily slamming the drawer behind them, over something I said or something I didn't say. My lovers cannot be traced. I know. I've tried. I've taken trains to their cities and stood on street corners in the miraculous off-chance that they might wander by. But each time, I have returned home, defeated and had to force myself to sleep so that my heart didn't kill me. Lonely, penniless, paralysed by the guilt of never having told my father I loved him, I wander hospital corridors, posing as a visitor. I have wept, enjoyed, struggled and overcome. But I remain disappointed. (Piano Magic, Journal of a Disappointed Man) … capitalize first letters of sentences. not anymore. propozitiile vor redeveni ingenue. ca si cand n-ar urma dupa puncte pe care viata (cine altcineva?) le pune cu atata grosolanie. si eu, ca si A., ma ridic, fac cativa pasi prin camera, sorb ultimele picaturi de cafea dizolvate in lapte condensat, scriu: a fost. nu va mai fi nicicand. vor veni altfel de zile, cu siguranta. la un moment dat, da, vor veni. cu aceeasi cantitate de nimic esential, cu greselile lor, cu pozele lor nedevelopate (din care trecutul se strecoara ca trupul necunoscut indeajuns al unui iubit de-o noapte, lasand pe cearsaf amprente ambigue si nereconstituibile). lucrurile pierdute irup ca urmele unor alergii la elemente si arome uitate. iti amintesti senzatia de a fi fost in proximitatea lor, dar ele, ele lipsesc. ca atunci cand vantul sau vreun duh rau iti aduce in camera mirosul balsamului de rufe pe care il folosea mama primei tale iubiri. o varietate pe care n-o cunosti, cu siguranta comuna, nespectaculoasa. cum te amagesti ca ar fi fost si ea, dragostea aia.  comuna, nespectaculoasa…