A Bit of Non-Fiction

Sunday. December. The day in a constant evening.

December asks you to clean the apartment. To keep all the lights on. To keep cleaning and cleaning.

December makes you not like the things you say. To dislike even more the things you write.

Understand even less the things you feel.

And then start over.

December makes you snap at the people closest to your heart. And then snap the heart itself.

To keep cleaning and cleaning.

To stop blaming December.

Sitting in bed, the sheets only half way up. For a change not smoking.

Listening to music never heard. Re-reading things never read.

For a change from cover to cover.


Worth a peak:

A very good essay:
What is an author?

Some valid but sad points about identity:
The Saturated Self