She says: 'I miss coziness, simple things, like wearing pajamas at night. A quietness that feels like a cave. Now all I do is tire and break and call it sleep. Then I get up the next morning, work and quick thoughts on the subway. I avoid to glance at strangers and they are all strange to me. So the ride is spent by I seeking out the spots my eyes are free to go. At noon I pretend to go to lunches. On the ride home I think of virtual fires.'
She says: 'I remember the second breakfast my father took when I was a child. He used to come into the kitchen every morning at eleven where he sat down at the large wooden table. There was a sofa by the oven, but I would sit close to him. He would eat bread and drink broth and cut pieces of sausage with a knife. Sometimes there was hot chocolate, too. For me and for him. We would look out of the window and at each other and talk, but only a little. Now, I find it a bit weird that this is the most prevalent remembrance of my father and me and that it feels like it was our daily ritual. It could not have been, since I went to kindergarten and later to school. But still I see everything right there.'