Vienna, July 28, 1988

I’m at Omama’s house in Vienna. I take the same pictures, in the same places that she took pictures of me as a child, with the same camera. I want to look at myself until I’m exhausted in order to forget myself.

We are moving, my mother is going to leave the apartment on Maximilian Street where I spent the first years of my life. Everything is like it was before, but covered in dust. I found some of my father’s letters among the papers from the time that we left for Mexico. In them he speaks of his little girl with love and longing. They hadn’t told me that.