Gazetari kur shkruan duhet te kete doren e paster, mendjen e ftohte, zemren e ngrohte.

 (When a journalist writes, he should have his hands clean, his mind cold and his heart warm)

Ameba u gjend sot ne klase ne mengjes heret. Nuk ishte vetem entuziazmi i saj, ishte edhe ajo se si gjithkush duket sikur te buzeqesh aty brenda, ishte qetesia qe buron nga gjithkund, ishte ndoshta edhe skica me dallendyshe e babagjyshe deshire e vizatuar qyshkur si dihet ne klasen ku do te behej mesimi. Te ishte kjo rastesi? Kjo dhe te tilla kokcarje gjerbeshin ngrohte me ekspresin e mengjesit mes miqsh. Ameba tashme e dinte se gjith cfare do ti duhej te bente ne vitin ne vijim ishte te punonte forte, pseudopodet tja drejtonte dijes me shpresen qe metamorfoza qe tashme kish nisur do te rezultonte ne dicka me te mire, trajten e se ciles kish filluar ta hamendesonte ne horizont.

(The amoeba found herself in the class early in the morning. It wasn't only about her enthusiasm, it was more about how everyone seemed like smiling in there, it was about how everything reflected peace, it maybe was even about the swallow and dandelion's draw in the blackboard. Was this a coincidence? This and other troubles were that morning warmly absorbed with the morning espresso between friends. Amoeba already knew that all she had to do was to work hard, extend her pseudopod toward knowledge by hoping the metamorphosis she had undertaken wold result in something brighter, whose shape she had already endorsed in the horizon.)