November 2010
5 posts
“we used to walk along the river,
and dream...
Writing cannot tell anything these days, the thing that needs to be told is composed of a little, tiny, single sentence. Is a single sentenced thought worth writing? As I chewing that question, my mind gets conquered by tumult, and I turn that little, tiny, pure, naïve thing into a colossal suffering which cannot be unveiled by a thousand sentences. Everything could stay the same, everything could...
“You know, you’re probably mad at something…
Because everybody...”