Most writers seem like perfectly decent people to me; it’s just that they’re better at expressing themselves in writing than in speech. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that they’re damn hard to live with—they make everything, or at least I do, way too complex, so it takes a long time to get out of... Lees verder →
I was on the run for a murder I was blamed for, even though I hadn’t committed it. For the first time in about fifteen years, I had cried again—not for a father who had disappeared, but for the living back home. After a major argument, my mother left me alone in my room with... Lees verder →
There they stood arm in arm as if it had always been that way this Tristan and Isolde she, mother and father the one 10 years older when the virus came and he saw the world change even before egos decided that war is necessary, that people are cattle for slaughter, ‘cause machines must roar,... Lees verder →
I cross the street, iron monsters surround me, throwing their poisonous gases into my eyes and filling my lungs, heavy as lead. That's how I feel now, I want to get away, away from the grind, away from the smell of everyday life, let me write, writing is not dying, writing is wanting to live,... Lees verder →
I am 21, and at this age I am really discovering it, that I am alive, or rather becoming aware that I am effectively breathing, feeling and being who I am. That my mind and body are one unit, which together can control each other, and that both are inseparable here on this globe. But... Lees verder →
Fastfood romantics 