Sometimes it just so happens that people mistake me for Dan Lungu, the writer. Not that I mind, but they ask me to speak in his name. I try to say clever things, I try not to disgrace him, especially when people say he’s a nice guy. Over time, I said a lot of things about him: that he allegedly likes marigold infusion, sociology and antiquities. Sometimes it’s possible that I contradicted myself, but nobody is that interested in the lives of writers. Strangely though, when I get depressed I actually think that I am Dan Lungu, the writer. Then, I start writing and the depression goes away.