at night my soul rearranges the confusion of life and turns it into technicolor movie reels, by day my soul tells stories. both are wrestles, expulsions, a pouring out of the eternity that lies – since creation – trapped in my finite body.
stories come out, they are not made up. i don’t create stories, i let them come. my mentor, janos, says i ought not tell too many people that the way i write stories is by listening to voices in my head. but there you are. i hear the voices of people who have no voice and give life to their stories. like waking dreams, they have nothing and everything to do with me.