He writes. He writes as if he were born for that. He writes all the time, without looking back, his arm is a huge pencil. He fills in the white sheets with signs known only to him, he fills in entire notebooks. The stacks on the desk are growing larger, his body has disappeared behind. Letters come out of the sheets oozing and slipping on the table foot. Mismatched words puddle on the wooden floor, finally ending up in the sewer network. In the quiet of the night, through the floor drains, you can hear them in each house, sighs.
Alexandra Buhudini
He hit his right temple briefly and often. He was rearranging the atoms of words.Phut, phut, the nightgown sounded like a white sheet. Phut, phut. My God is the Word, enslave me, Lord, to the coals of inspiration. In the moonlight it looked like an unsharpened pencil, from which smelled of mould. He enters the therapy room and approaches the board. Black.Brimstone. He smelled it. Enslave me, Lord. He took out the white, round pill, licked it as if it were Eve, and scribbled with the white dust board for the salvation of the coal soul.
Tina Dublea
Man, do you know who I am? So why are you talking, man? Man, do you have any idea how many books I've written, man? Did you read me, man? You wrote too, man, I don't dispute, man, but you can't take me, man, because you don't have my hand, man, whatever you say, man. Writing is my hand, man. My divinity, man. I have it as the second organ, man, do you understand me, man? I write wonderful and amazing, not dull things, man, I raise the roof of the publishing house, man. You think I'm a headstrong, but I'm not, man, I'm just a grandiose man, man. Like any other. It's pathological, man.
(Translated by Corina-Alexandra Belu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.