The Who

The why.

Haunted by stories that refuse to stay buried, my brain bleeds ink.

I spent my first 27 years in communist Romania—rejected from law school for having a dead German grandmother, surviving a revolution, and eventually passing the dental boards in Canada just to prove I could. Once my patients started to die—independently of my actions and treatments—and after burying my father over an ocean, I retired from dentistry.

During my Canadian life, I did a few other things: web design with blinking text, inspecting failed electronics, mediation, and writing two online manuals for professions I had nothing in common with. Ah, and I used to have a PI license, which became invalid once I stopped paying for it. No one wanted me for surveillance anyway—age, size, they said.

Every two weeks, and now and then in between, I publish a story with no grave—some remembered, some imagined, none entirely at peace.

At other times, I unravel the process, the why. And myself.

Why subscribe?

To follow one writer’s attempt to make sense of the beautiful, messy business of being human.

My words, until now, have bounced between walls and a black screen.

They might find a home in you. A friend. Or maybe a stranger. You’ll decide.

No spectacle. No forced resolution. Just echoes—globular, lingering, inconvenient.

Welcome inside my eye.

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