The fast train 2244 left the station of Sibiu three minutes late. The ticket collector had talked to the engine driver and they both waited for Aurelian Gavrila. His friends put him into the goods wagon, feet ahead, in a six- board box made of fir wood. It’s his last journey. The station was now behind, with them standing on the platform and the two black glossy railways, covered with snow. >>>

DESTINIES

I never knew quite clearly whether stories are meant to lull us to sleep or, on the contrary, to keep us awake. For instance, my grandmother would begin to snore right in the middle of the battle between Praslea and the dragon. Much later, I myself would fall asleep, a little concerned, it’s true, about the fate of the brave man forever forgotten buried in the ground up to the waist. >>>

STORIES

In a room forever barren, pierced by the trills of the wooden bird resembling a violin newly awoken, the dawn is breaking and the day emerges with a new film. It is the thin, black film, worshipped by the few people that have been chosen. I wouldn’t want to talk to you about its blackness, about the webs within us, woven by the darkness. >>>

THE MAGIC EYE

beyond it, there’s a feeling torn from the azure/ a sensation slowly breathing in the frozen time/ an inspiration or an expiration/ set free in the painted air/ beyond it, there’s the track of November wandering/ the roads already trodden by insomnia/ a fragment of some timepiece examined in a mirror in great surprise/ beyond it, far away, there lie retouched sequences. >>>

BEYOND

on the delicacy of a lined morning
one day you can grab a line and surround the noon or any fragment of time. Should you cut it? Not quite, just go beyond time, all the way through time, asking him nicely to get out of your way, just to let you see yourself the way the others will remember you. You won’t belong to yourself any more, nor will you be able to take from beyond the spitefully mild look you adopt >>>

THE EPHEMERAL

SELF-PORTRAIT