the action that made me feel strangely sad when i was reading a book on the bus yesterday when i thought that 'who knows, the words and letters that i read so quickly and consumed, who knows, with what difficulties, what sleepless nights and what pains'. the analogy may sound strange, but the fact that the stuffed stuff my mother wrapped for hours ends up in a maximum of 10 minutes the next day, causing similar feelings for me. my consolation is the wonderful taste it leaves in my mouth. your stuffing and your book...
the most masochistic form of masturbation.
i sat down and wrote some 150 pages. brain was not enough for later, i had to make a map on a piece of paper. who's relationship with whom, the themes, i don't know what... hard work, the first novel is very difficult once you get used to the story.
an act that, like many others, i personally made my purpose of existence at the time. if you can be successful in writing a story, i say why not, but the method of postponing the realities of life at the expense of doing this action brings people to the edge of the abyss. it is very difficult to cope with that dizziness and come back healthy. of course, a separate parenthesis should be opened for the lucky ones from the family.
job i started a few weeks ago. however, i just ate mince pita and i can't continue with that taste in my mouth.