And suddenly there is nothing to write about. Hundreds of events fight for domination in my head. Each thing wants to be described but I send everything away to be drowned in a...kind of milk or cream. It's a fluid, white and a little bit orange sweet milk-like fluid. Not quite happiness but...I suppose it's a deep form of satisfaction.
But I'm so depressed that I'm leaving on Friday. What shall I do in Georgia? Sit my ass on the beach sipping beer like a real Russian man? Raping little girls? Climbing every mountain with Dresden Dolls in my ears - oh not, not Dresden Dolls again, they give me pains and hope. Perhaps the best way will be abstracting myself from everything and flowing like everyone does. The goal abandoned me, so I've torn the connecting wires. To hell with it, I have enough things to do.
Why am I afraid? Maybe I like to be afraid? And I cover this fear with an intense smile. Yesterday I've drawn on a piece of paper the remains of my heart. I'm too open right now, so I cut it out.
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