I moved to Militari three years ago. Taking a walk in the neighborhood reminded me of my childhood. Children playing hide and seek,  flori, fete si baieti, people coming back from work, smell of food crawling from apartments, cold shades.I asked a man if I could take a picture of him. He said we wouldn’t mind, but he should dress up. I should return tomorrow and he would be wearing a suit. A gently way to say no. Kids asked me if I was planning to document the gangs from the neighborhood.
A man dressed in a yellow sweater, smelling like alcohol, reciting poems, Eminescu, Cosbuc and telling that only poetry kept him away from  going mad. “Saying I love you is not a big deal, but telling it in a poem, well, for that, you have to rip off the words from your soul.” I asked him if he had been a literature teacher. “No, I just loved poetry.”