A mystical experience
occurs when reading ‘Tehomir’ written by Horațiu Mălăele.
The eyes read the lines,
but inside one’s head the voice... oh, the voice is his, Horațiu’s. It gently
whispers the words, in that unmistakable diction, clear, stressing on all
syllables, in a rhythm careless to the passing of the time.
Nostalgia gets unlimited
powers, embracing the reader while gently whispering. This story is sad in a
magical way, and longing takes human shape whose hand softly touches the
reader, passing on the shivers.
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