I will never know what wasteland is. Is it that thing deep inside us, or everywhere around us, outside of us, that sometimes presses so hard the morning, afternoon and evening sky; or is it something completely different, something else – the one last thing in us craving for the sky, not knowing why, yet lying that it craves only for the wasteland? There is no greater or sadder reminder of death, our own death, than this abundance of life of an elderberry bush next to which, once upon a time, we inhaled the evening air.
Delimir Rešicki, Wasteland (fragment)