Yes, I know. I owe you a letter. Sorry, no inspiration, no will.
If I'd wrote it, nothing good would get your hands.


"If at least the wind could carry the words of my thoughts..."

A third of the year has gone and I stay the same.
Every day... every day...

At least new people entertain me when to much boredom gets me.

Where is that passion that I had when I wrote. It seems every single drop of inspiration has simply gone. My thoughts can't arrange the words and ideas. My inners hasn't had that fire - or cold - burning - or freezing - within anymore.
I look around me and can't see that old power growing inside. Everything seem to have frozen.
Or maybe I stop at all.
Maybe is me. Me that became boredom. Maybe I am the boredom.
...


Shit, I can't write.