(no subject)
I've turned the last page on the calendar on the wall.
It's snowing tranquilently, silently on the other side of the window.
There's a David Bowie album playing in the room. The album I only associate with one person.
My little black book is lying on the table; I've decided, I have to write again.
I owe it to myself - not to give up on a stupid and childish dream that keeps me going all these years.
My time might be lost, all the time in fact, but I would hate myself, if I lost this - words coming together in the sentences, then in paragraphs, then in pages, then in a story.
And I have to thank one particular person for it.
The one person who inspired me all of a sudden, from the deepest place inside me. The one person, who I will always think of, listening to The Next Day.
For three months I've wondered why do I only remember a year before last, and, curiously, I know the answer is a bit daft.
But it's not about the why, is it?
It's snowing tranquilently, silently on the other side of the window.
There's a David Bowie album playing in the room. The album I only associate with one person.
My little black book is lying on the table; I've decided, I have to write again.
I owe it to myself - not to give up on a stupid and childish dream that keeps me going all these years.
My time might be lost, all the time in fact, but I would hate myself, if I lost this - words coming together in the sentences, then in paragraphs, then in pages, then in a story.
And I have to thank one particular person for it.
The one person who inspired me all of a sudden, from the deepest place inside me. The one person, who I will always think of, listening to The Next Day.
For three months I've wondered why do I only remember a year before last, and, curiously, I know the answer is a bit daft.
But it's not about the why, is it?