Τα ξαναθυμήθηκα και τα παραθέτω. Όλα γράφτηκαν για την Ν.Κ. και την έκθεση της. Τότε, πριν 2 χρόνια σχεδόν (πότε πέρασαν κιόλας;).
We all live glass lives. Diaphanous, isolated. Glass are our windows, our walls, our floors. Glass are our houses and glass are our clothes. Cold, unforgiving, hard glass, making it impossible to hide, yet impossible to connect at the same time. I have tried to move beyond the glass, have tried and broken my nose on its deceptive transparency. You must accept that you will be seen. You must accept in and decide to look right back at the world- back at those who have mocked you, scorned you, ignored you. Look back at them, rejoice at not being part of them. Still, there might come a cold winter day when the glass seems unbearable, when your desire to break past its iciness, to feel the warmth of another body close to yours is greater than ever. And so you break the obvious glass, crash it and move in closer to the warmth of the other person. You do this only to find that the warmth is never complete, for the glass never goes. Be it 10 centimeters or a thin film, it never goes; never, never, never. Broken, like the glass you thought you had escaped, you move back to your diaphanous cell, never to come out again; for you seem to have the extraordinary ability of melting sand into glass, of creating that most loathsome of substances out of thin air. No, I am not part of them; and I never will be.