There's no clock ticking after all.
I miss that tick tock, sounding always as a constant in the wrist, in my head.
It reminded me of the silence, the tick tock is always stunning when there is no other sounds, just like the endless nights of an insomnia that were never one, just like owls don't drink energy pills when the night starts arriving.
sigh, i wonder why does the piece inside seems to work more properly at night,
nothing to actually find at the moment, art, art, art or what i feel as art.
nothing, art as feelings i suppose.
dreams of dogs, dreams of distant people, romanticizing the solitude.
black and white and film and more art and more me.
i must be in love with myself, with my fat self, with my thin self, with my head, with the heavily orange of a sun that is harsher than a piece of coal that was just burnt in the fire to cook the cows that others wont eat, but my dogs will devour.
i ramble, where is the sandman,
i'll be your lady.
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