I have had an unexpected conversation with someone whom I respect greatly. Someone notorious in his field. Someone who has opened a new field of opportunities for me to get lost in. Has anyone ever felt in possession of something precious, something easy, something that you hold in your hands but that the wind wants to blow away. A permanent gift that you must make available to everyone.

A writer is like a painter who paints figures for ever. Every minute of his life, a writer goes to the simplest word, to a field to cut some grass. A house is not four walls nor a fence but the book of a day, of an hour. Where something, where anything can disappear - where anything can come back. When your eyes leave the book, they should go out and meet somebody else's eyes, feel surprised in a garden, bite into some fruits.

Words have a voice that you can hear from far away.

I have lit a few candles. I am all concentrated in the smoke of these little fires.

What would I do in a world where questions wage war in cold hotel rooms, where faces are damped by the neon lights? What would I do in a world where nobody ever ponders at the moon, where no inner agitation comes forward? I can't dwell in a silent ravine, home of hectic whispers. Ugliness must end like the crackled song of a word with no history. Voices can confidently kill its echo away.