Life is not always the same: there are days running, and how if you run, and days that do not run at all. Behold, now is one of the latter. No, today is that day is a day that does not turn. You strive, Reel, believe it, but then just think of one time "but who am I doing this?" to lose the security in all things. It is like a drug, this thought, like smoking, the first time, you think it's a joke and the other, because you have nothing to do, and the third, to keep company with a friend, and the fourth, think again decided to have you. But then, then just: that is the vice then you decide.
only that at least one cigarette can be pleasurable, at least it is picturesque; fucking thought, no.
When she turns, usually live and write during the day when others will roll between the sheets.
When not running, the boundary between living and writing disappears and becomes a living writing, and writing is like die.
Paradoxically, the best ideas always come at the worst moments. Or maybe it is a paradox: perhaps it is the norm, who knows. I do not think I'll find ever: I do not think any writer or poet is never sincere when he describes how the inspiration, I think instead of always enrich the narrative with colorful suggestions. On the other hand, it's their job, making the banal normality picturesque daily.
stories are not unusual, but unusual words to tell her. History
common for special people.
And so, here's my last idea. She looks at me, looking out shyly from a spreadsheet.
wonder if divorce soon, later or never.
From my notebook:
Emile is the son of my sorrow.
Emile is not what I want to be, but what I have.
Emile gives me the help that no psychologist would know.
Emile could be a sort of new world in which to hide his face.
Only the dreamer knows the value of reality.
