all changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. -anatole france
seiltev in španska renesansa: to nekako paše skupaj, ko berem don kihota na škatlah s knjigami. potem so tu še modre stene v novi sobi, zaradi katerih imam neprestano željo po sladoledu, mušnice na okenski polici, hišica za ptičke-vidim jo skozi okno, ko ležim v postelji. in ko med branjem zaspim nad črkami, sanjam da je vse tako, kot je bilo-po starem. ceprav ne vem tocno kakšno je bilo to staro, mislim da manj utrudljivo. komaj cakam na jagode.

to sta moja najljubsa Mala Velika bodoca Mamica in moj najljubsi Mali Veliki Clovek. zankrat me pozdravlja le z brcami in komaj cakam, da ga spoznam.

tretji dan pomladi (ker je prvi prevec banalen) s sokom iz granatnega jabolka in cokolado. pri meni je cas za piknike in za rozasta krila

obozujem zacetke novih letnih casov, suhe fige, nosecniske trebuscke in stare omare. nisem clovek, ki nori zaradi tehnologije, raje imam razglednice kot sms sporocila in stokrat raje grem v kino ali gledalisce kot pred televizijo. vendar imam tudi jaz sibko tocko: moj racunalnik namrec, ki je moja ljubezen. prvega mac-a sem dobila nenacrtovano in se ga res nisem dovolj razveselia, ker sem mislila, da ga ne potrebujem. najina ljubezen je rasla pocasi in na koncu, ko se je pred parimi meseci pokvaril, sem bila res nesrecna. danes pa sem dobila novega: seveda sem zrtvovala nekaj ur ucenja in se z njo boljse spoznala (ja, odlocila sem se, da bo tokrat zenska) in skupaj sva izbrali nekaj priljubljenih dodatkov, brez katerih enostavno ne gre.
(hmm, vedno sem si zelela biti pisateljica tam nekje leta 1910 in tipkati na pisalni stroj)

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.
— Haruki Murakami