Those we loved, they’re dead. Faces behind hands, shy shawls dropped, modestly awry. Those we love, they’re married. - András Petőcz

And be desired, she said while holding me in her arms:
because happy are the desired, each and all, she said with eyes
closed, in a desperate embrace. And our bodies cuddled up
to each other. Happy are those who want to love, she said,
today happy are the desired ones. I want you, she said,
want your movements, because they all are good for me,
want your caresses, because they all are good for me.
Give you my untouched young body, because I’m yearning
now for your embrace. I give you my vulnerable young body,
because I am yearning --- even for pain. Desired you are,
and I desire your desire, and do with me whatever you want
to do, she said, for happy are the desired ones, each and all,
and what I want to be is: desired-for-ever.

I got out of the bathroom of course. I locked the front door and pushed the big wardrobe up against the bathroom door. I thought it'd be good to be careful. A little too late, maybe.
I'm not leaving my apartment. I'm not gonna give it away. No. There's no reason I should.
The noise from the bathroom was the shattering of my porcelain toilet bowl.
They're in the bathroom. A lot. There's a lot of them. A bunch of sniffling snouts. A bunch of rats.
They're already chewing the wardrobe. I'm standing in my room, listening to their swarming.
Thousands of rats, in my apartment. All of them gnawing. I wait. Wait for them to get in. They'll be in here soon. It won't be long.
They're coming. Rats. My rats.
I'm waiting. What else can I do?

It is my belief that everyone is a stranger as an individual and since everyone is a stranger, that is precisely the reason we cannot question someone else’s strangeness or otherness. It is that simple. We ourselves are strangers. Often even to ourselves... And while people have some kind of desperate desire to belong somewhere, as I see it, many people also have a perpetual desire to be outsiders.