Damn be the one who dares to get drunk in London then go on a date. Especially if your girlfriend doesn't write the number of the house in her love note. At the first window I sang Yellow Submarine, her favourite song, but I got a bucket of water poured over my head. At the second one I sang Last Christmas, and I received a box of old shoes. At the third one I sang I will survive and the reward was a plastic basin. I swear on the fourth one I will sing Green leaf of the small willow tree, Mărie and Mărioară.
Anca Chimoiu
At first, he counted them, but then he got tired. They weren't all the same. One had a rough surface, the other had tiny ripples, as if the northern wind had blown across it before it dried. Even the seams were different. Some felt as if someone had carved cuneiform poems with the tip of a needle. The rest was just chaos. No algorithm, no pattern, not a clue. What was the point to split hairs? Any of the bricks could serve as a window if he closed his eyes. All he had to do was pull back his fingers and imagine.
Ionuț Morariu
The walls have ears and the windows have eyes. Well, we are what we read. In childhood. It's all that comes to mind while I wait, shivering, for you to open the window, to lean on the sill, and banish the darkness. But you never reveal yourself to my eyes, and the cold shakes my humble bones and I slowly disintegrate into the quotes my father shaped me by. For I am a phoneme, and among phoneme I will return to. Ah. If the doors of perception were open, everything would appear to you as it is. An endless farce.
(Translated by Maria-Ilinca Darie / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.