"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." - Ernest Hemingway

lunes, 25 de agosto de 2014

¿Dónde están las margaritas cuándo las necesitas?

I think I lost myself in the moment he looked at me and I thought ‘he must love me’. Cause if he looks at me like this it can only mean that. But as that thought emerged, so did the doubts, and almost a second later, the next thought: ‘he doesn’t love me’. I receded some centimetres to get some perspective, and he pulled me even nearer. What perspective or what the fuck, there wasn’t a valid point of view and I didn’t know if he loved me, ‘but I do love him’, and the thought appeared but this time without any doubts. And he looked at me again and I lost myself. Again. And now I think I’m really screwed. Fuck.

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