I am in step with time and I think that time is surprised, not me.
Now in this city I live in a lonelyhood of numerous ambitious people, some like me, some very different from me but all of us questioning our presence.
Impossibility is sort of phantasmagoria and we go after it not knowing what it is.
The library is made by its readers and the writers.
In small squares of sticky paper, we write notes to ourselves, it's a private conversation deemed irrelevant with time and isn't that our existence?
I know now that you won’t read this, and I don’t know if I will get to read it to you.
This is what adult life is, right? A pigeonhole existence, and nomadic presence.
Here I am fulfilling a childish dream through an adult ambition.
We never really take the 'new' in New Year seriously do we? I know I don't.