30 years have passed, and now I remember. So here I am again on the same street, only much older. Not so old because I still feel my heart skipping a beat. Some things never die. Look, here is the place where we played badminton, there the alley on which we held hands. It could have been, but it wasn't. And no, not then I dreamt at your window, but now, when I can finally see you. So, I don't fucking know how to turn back the time, to hold your hand and to continue that dream which has just begun, this time for eternity.
Ina Moldoveanu
You haven't lived in the attic apartment on the outskirts for a long time now, but I always pass by that place. I stop under the streetlight from the corner of the street, and I wait for something to happen. People look at me funny, as if I'm a lost soul with a disturbed mind, and then I start to see things that others cannot perceive. Your window is enchanted. I read people's minds. It's chilling what they think. How easily they utter fake words of love, how many tears they squeeze, so much hypocrisy that makes my skin crawl. This crazy woman, this crazy woman they laugh in unison. She's an angel. She does not cry.
Venera Hoffmann
When night comes, the block of flats' windows pulsate, the lights of the fireflies reflect small existences, habitual commotions. Some read, some pet cats, some make the bed. Some dream the infinity in a banal perimeter, lifeless, but safe. With every sunset, nothing is the same anymore, except for the illusion that there is still time. Deformed silhouettes mutilate small worlds and the bigger world, the beauty of the world. Rigged conversations, confessions of cardboard. Loneliness flutter. And above all, unshaken, my love.
(Translated by Ana Maria Mitruș / 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.