Even if, on the edge of the sea’s drift, you are convinced that you are near to deciphering whatever object you think you held in the horizon. Whether it’s made of dust, ash, or smoke.
By Monday, all uncertainty must be abandoned.
Things unfinished, drafts yet to be polished, lost memories yet to be summoned must be set aside.
Time is nobody’s mistress.
So yeah, but how was your past week? Don’t you feel that September is just a transitory stage between more definite months?
I’ve begun to leaf through old notes and old scribblings, half-curious and half-embarrassed. As I read new texts and finally break-in books bought years ago, nothing really becomes clearer.
Which former self are you most proud of? I cannot say. Here, sitting in the present, I can only list versions of versions.
Good that I finally found a cheap source of quality laces: need to replace those that have torn.
From gray to black, ashes offer stories of the material that once burned.
No time to sit back and relax; whenever I do sit down, I am lost in thought.