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?
This is what adult life is, right? A pigeonhole existence, and nomadic presence.
This time of the year we all look back, we try and take our pitfalls with a pinch of salt, and ponder on all the wasted time
I can wish that the weekend should have been better, but I'll just put it to rest and move on.
Even English has become a gamble, I don't know what constitutes English anymore.
I never understood why boats have to made of paper, and that's the important question.
Who knows where we head from here? Does it matter?
I don't know how long it will take me to allow myself to get scared again.