A friend once called me an incurable romantique. I laughed. She did not know me well. Even so she somehow was right: she did see something in me. Another person told me that I am “o fantezistă”. This person was also right. And now what does all this mean? That I might have to return to reality; with a little observation: It is not about “my reality” anymore.
For those who did not see “my” -> illusions. Same flower. Different feelings.