dahzas dienas nekas cits neatliek, kaa sakaartot istabu, uzvaariit teeju, klausiities Modern Lovers un gaidiit kad jaaiet uz darbu.

man ir taa, ka viss ir labi, liidz es atceros, ka esmu cilveeks, dazhreiz es eju garaam veikalam, un atspulgaa sevi redzu, vai es shivereejos pa istabu, shivereejos, vai vienkaarshi eju kaut ko panjemt no atvilknes, un es redzu savu seju vai roku spogulii, un tas pats notiek arii vannasistabaa, tur es redzu visu sevi, un es atceros tad, ka es esmu viena maza sieviete ar muljkiigu skumju iebiedeetu sejas izteiksmi. taados briizhos man gribas padoties un kaut kur sabrukt un raudaat.

dziive nebiidi man vairs aaraa dziivot, dziivot vienaa siikaa veidolaa, kuru visi aplipina ar savaam stereotipu un laikmetiigo veertiibu lapinjaam.

es veeleetos sheit ielikt citaatu:

“Man shouldn’t be able to see his own face—there’s nothing more sinister. Nature gave him the gift of not being able to see it, and of not being able to stare into his own eyes. Only in the water of rivers and ponds could he look at his face. And the very posture he had to assume was symbolic. He had to bend over, stoop down, to commit the ignominy of beholding himself. The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.”
— Fernando Pessoa