'the charm of the written word that sets you free'

the end of the light season, now the rainy time of year, the water collects in long drops over my balcony and falls rarely, but with a load of extreme; swollen pendulum; November perpetual motion machine.
I feel helpless.
against the trance character of the theater situation, with dozens of people sitting on the one side and Herta Müller with Angelika Kuźniak on the other, the women immersed in a low and quiet conversation, over two hours long. German language with a Romanian accent, black hair and black lines under Herta's eyes, all her figure as if drawn with a piece of charcoal, so distinct, so sophisticated and dark, dark, dark.
meditation, with her sitting up there, like a black polished onyx; over our heads a theatrical muddle of fastenings and lights (yet subdued), black walls and overexposed photographs projected on the wall behind the stage. I was focused, the water surface was calm, but I broke the evening subversively together with three women and a man – though it's hard to believe, we went for a pizza and beer which we drank to Herta (may the heavens forgive us). yet I don't regret making that holy state cloudy. those people are more important, even if I can see a tinge of hypocrisy underneath their occasionally friendly utterances, even if my communication with B. is apparently getting torn and twisted, even if I'm not totally comfortable with it and I can't really be who I want myself to be, still, being with them is most important.

It is beautiful to live. No matter whether this life is beautiful or not.
H.M.