This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?

Tell me what's the difference

I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.

Even a painful longing is some form of presence.

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

I write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.

There are things better left untouched by words.