Sunday. That is, yesterday. Prepare the interview for a bigwig in Italian journalism. If the courage and charisma, she has a charisma that sticks to the plaster as a bioadhesive, which you will put away a shot.
Sunday afternoon. Also yesterday. I'm leaving on a mission to a Viennese coffee house, New Poetry with creature in my Guess shoulder and under the wool cap earphones which leaves a vast repertoire Hymen. Nature versus technology, and yet I see glimmers of peace in the harmony of dissonance Gridlock and stories of life around the trees.
Mezzanine Bar. Groundhog Day is that listening to the poet Jérôme Chassagnard post-antzen electronics. I want to write something about the desire to write. I have a notebook with pen attached to the wires of intricate words and I do not stop. If so far I have not reached the maximum grip with cyanoacrylate-sheet-type is only because I put off the apocalypse, not in the sense of revelation, but in the more eschatological catastrophe of my "inaction of the pen." Too many years in the cave. Too many nights in the sunrise. But hours through water in the pool of people without shelter and learned of the bar.
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