I took a walk around the city last night at 4am, with a cigarette in one hand and cup of strong tea in the other. It was so, so peaceful, everyone sleeping except a mass chorus of birds. It had rained all day; everything was slick and misty.
Something in my brain says that if happiness is to be real, if it is to last, it must grow gradually, not explode onto the scene. I don't know how to believe sudden rays of light. If it feels so good, so sudden, it must be imagination, right?
I like to look at clouds of my cigarette smoke against the glare of streetlights.
I find I am scared of nothing, nothing at all, except not creating to my full potential... and being alone in life.
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