All that's decent, but I need my byline somewhere, anywhere. At the moment it's difficult to write, and what worries me is an actual perfect detachment that will distance me further from all around. I need street poetry, I need my promises, I need roses and lips -- and I have nothing at the moment, but some broken lines of broken songs.
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I really can't write, and when I want to, I can't.
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It starts with an idea, doesn't it? A small flickering hope sometimes in the sun and sometimes in a dark room. Then there's a bit of mystery, a little sadness perhaps as well, and then as though you're waking up from wispy dreams in the early morning. We sip tea, smoke our cigarettes, sigh, and carry on with our newspapers. Just like a song. Then we decide to write. A letter, then a word, then a sentence, then a paragraph, and then a story. But it doesn't seem write. So we laugh. And we're tired and we feel a bit hollow. We seem wronged a little. Not terribly sad though. But we feel or we pretend to, and I suppose we don't know. Then we're a bit lost and we let ourselves to slide. When the ride is over, we feel cheated and dizzy. We look for eyes. Some do with pale one's and some with bright. We drift. We think, we wander and then we sigh again, we sip more tea.