I have written several times about Vasile Iovu. I don’t know when I found it well between words. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it’s before. We met sometimes in the street and he told me that, a little while ago, in no I know what year, I wrote about him as rarely happened... I haven’t found that text even today. And I stopped looking for him. Because, so I got it, I haven’t written it yet. That’s why I write and write and will write about Vasile Iovu. Maybe, you know, I’ll write one day like he hasn’t written yet no one. May be.