I always turned on the TV to find an Armenian translation of something, memorize the words, shut my nostrils and run to the kitchen. – Mom, listen! I learnt to speak just like Bill. I used to love admiring the green apples and the green grass and never come close to it – in fear of hurting them. And now I look around and everything is green and translucently submarine. I do not take a step – in fear of hurting. Perhaps one day there won’t be any songs left, that you can stick in your ears and talk endlessly of – knowing you shall always be understood. Write, to be a write, to try? It would say no, of course no. But if you have things to say, that you cannot speak of, what can you do? Get yourself together and go insane? Or write and conceal it all under lock. To say it out loud is shameful. You have to live right. The greens are made for walking, and the apples – for eating. Enough of this philosophy. Don’t turn your head, and don’t find the little black dots that are in your eyes, don’t do that, it’s more dangerous that eating the green apples. We live life in our worry and fear, in terror and mundane, in centuries and shacks under tall buildings, in love and unlove, in running away and in returning. It’s good to write, maybe. If you don’t go insane. Or. It’s good to go insane, if you get to write. I don’t know what you will say. Everything is green and submarine. The howl of the dogs has concurred the world. But you are alone. You are afraid of hurting.