When I write sometimes I like to think I am playing a piano, that my fingers are producing art.... I want to close my eyes and let me go... just let me go...
I wish writing was like playing a piano, harmonic....but it’s not, it’s a process that is completely inharmonic and inorganic, your hands don’t move graciously, the sound of the keys is like little hammers that blend in with the noise all around you... no one feel the need to shut up when you are writing... it’s not an art worth to see performed. .
There was this brief part of my existence where I did things that seemed being what I needed... but now it’s all gone back into being silly, unnecessary and sad...
I have abandoned the book.
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