It was any old weekday and we were in the middle of a genocide. No one, however, lived differently because of this, not even us, the captive and killable. Or was it that we’d never stopped running, that we couldn’t distinguish between being alive and living furtively anymore? Sometimes I think there should be no art, no literature, under these conditions, that the street should be our blank page, revolution our magnum opus, love our oeuvre.
