Înainte de Paşte m-am întâlnit din greşeală cu fostul meu profesor de desen. Aş putea spune, unul dintre profii mei de desen, dar n-am să fac asta.  L-am avut ca îndrumător atât în şcoala generală, pe când eram un ţânc ce mâzgălea mutre de Sailor Moon în spatele caietelor de teme, până în liceu, când ne preda Istoria Artei şi noi eram prea aerieni ca să fim atenţi. Este printre puţinii oameni pe care îi admir. Nu, nu admir vedete, nu admir intelectualii care se perindă prin faţa unui ecran

Entering through the door, my senses were hit by that smell. As of the walls were made of your skin. And I was breathing its scent. Although sick, you were full of life and kindness. Bitter-sweet, like apples fallen on dry soil when autumn debuts. And the chairs with their backrests that gathered around my shoulders. Forgetting to feel uncomfortable, because your words made me travel a long way. Fleeting words, which I cannot remember today. Even if I wanted to. They were not only sentences. You engraved them in

I like movies inspired from real stories. The diving bell and the butterfly Is one of those movies you will never forget. The type that give me trust that they weren’t specially made to dry the tears out of me. Or to psychologically manipulating me into buying some kind of product. Maybe making me wonder about the wonders of special effects. It gives me a feeling of humanity, although I am an animal fan. Close enough. The diving bell and the butterfly is inspired by Jean Dominique Bauby’s life, former author and

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