I usually write here when I am useless for other tasks, when I am worn out. So, my words are mere squiggles that never take the shape of what I really want to say, they are anything but the clearness of sounds in nature. Instead of the trees rich with May, I can only reach the shadows of moving and rustling leaves. There is strength, helplessness, but not vitality. It is not even this quiet and gentle talk of nothing at all, the sort of talk I do love. It is just my rumpled bed, my foolishness, my slow and clumsy motions, a frailing fire who breathes, a tinge of fear, the flickering of life and just one desire: to sleep into a world full of hope and joy without coming back into this exhausting reality.