My mother did not listen to me. My father did not listen to me. People did not listen to me.

I was a child and I spoke. Source of ideas and tiny creatures. How was it dried up?

If we speak honestly, we can get hurt. What else hurt us than our honestly spoken words?

If we show ourselves in our love, in our fondness and desire, we are thing of greatest fragility.

My parents neglected me. I grew up as a cold person. I had to learn life laboriously.

Everything social shifted to the sphere of doing, to the sphere of art.

In my writing I expand what I stopped once as a child - I speak.

But how could one speak, were there no human being?

The speaking seizes the people in its prospective gaze. There they sprout.

In the prospective gaze the world begins to live. There the faces of truth wander.

No person began to believe, they could be loved. Only in their knowledge of becoming their heart beats.