My nest is inside father’s trolleybus. As far back as I can remember, I was always there. The names of the bus stops mark summer vacation, horrible downpours after class, the Christmas Eve rush, the side mirrors completely caked in snow.

I came into the world in those times when storks delivered babies. Sometimes mothers would also find their children in a cabbage patch or in a wicker basket floating in a river amongst the reeds. But I was the only child in the whole village to have been bought.

The love they sing about in songs ends in a marriage that becomes the butt of jokes. True art is born from sexual tension.

It’s hard to create distance, it’s as if you’re looking at yourself dead or you’re dead and looking at yourself. You have to abandon that peel, which means being a Lithuanian, tradition, family, culture, and the like, and look at it from the outside, it’s very difficult, almost impossible, you’ll start to lie, because the truth about yourself is unbearable, or you’ll start to hate yourself, because you will always be lying.

Survive.
The most important thing is to survive.
It’s the morning now, and I need to get up. To push on. To work. To do things.
Another day to be endured.

Every art project is created on the basis of illusions you have at a particular stage of your life. They keep hold of your attention over what you do, over the things you live through. Perhaps, if there were no illusions, we would die much sooner.