All I wanted was to write few chaotic words as simple as a dawn after a night full of thick memories.
Instead I was walking in my room… worried, nullified and glued to usuals…
I don’t think people doing what they really want make this world a great place,
but certainly a good one…and that’s sometimes all it matters.
Nobody wants to be the fictions of somebody else’s book,
even after knowing the plots, the romances and a babbling pop song to go beyond.
I was walking, I was impersonating my uptight character,
that’s when I saw this sculpture right opposite my window.
It has always been there,
I was looking at it and I felt horrible for the person who made this…
How can we appreciate anything which can’t transcend over time
no art worth something has ever talked about the history and stuff.
Then I realized the balance of probability of the creation….
There will always be struggle, there will always be lives of quantitative dreams,
at the same time there will always be people choosing booze for their process of creation…
there will always be dreams of sleepless and flamed eyes.

I stopped. I started to get drunk.
There was a high raise waiting for me the next day in my work,
but when oceans have ever been created out of sanity?
It was better to get hammered in that strong liquid and to sleep through the whole next day.