...
... Suddenly I start to have the will to live. I don't know how to say it out loud, I don't know how to express it. But I need it to be seen. And there's only one way to do it, the one old way that I had been doing all my life: writing.


--
What is love? The hurtful feeling that tortures you at night; the burns that keep you sweating when soaked in the icy rain; the infinite gaze at the unexisted end of a dark and mysterious alley; the tingling in the breaths, the throbbing in the nerves, the itching in the gut; the one thing that I live for; the one thing that has been long gone from me, from my memory, and from my life.

On this silently gloomy day in August, this extremely fine and diametrically opposed to hallucination, the most real, the only real feeling in the world, together with the moss in the damp corners outside after the rain, suddenly, in that unique way that I could not be more familiar with, started to emerge from all corners of my damp body, started to revive me and my long slumbering life.

My nerves began to awaken, my tear ducts began to fill up.