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On a letter never sent
Some words are born for you, not for the one they're addressed to. Sometimes writing them is enough.
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A morning with a cup of tea
Sometimes everything you need fits into one quiet morning — steam rising from the cup, a bird's voice through the window, and a letter to yourself.
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The silence that speaks
When you learn to wait for silence, it begins to speak. But only when nothing else interrupts it anymore.
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The book that walked along
Širdies takais was not born at a desk, but while walking. On the road between Chicago and Vilnius, between silence and word.
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Spring as a threshold
Spring isn't a celebration. It's a threshold — the place where last year stayed on one side, and you are on the other.
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The body, a guest
The body isn't you. The body is a guest, living with you in this life. And we listen to guests.
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