My dear friend on this journey. You built this dark mound to lead the life of a termite. Protected from the sunlight. Closed in your sad rigid rituals. Even if they make you mad, these rituals became your shield against the winds, the waves, against stars and feelings. Every day you struggle to forget your human condition. The clay you are molded from has dried out and hardened. No one will ever find in you an astronomer, musician, altruist, poet or human who lived for even one day

— Adam Miauczynski, Dzien swira (2002)