Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.

Problem is, once I sit at my desk and put all these down on paper. I realize something vital is missing. It doesn't crystallize - no crystals, just pebbles. And I'm not transported anywhere.

Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.

It's just that you're about to do something out of the ordinary. And after you do something like that, the everyday look of things might seem to change a little. Things may look different to you than they did before. But don't let appearances fool you. There's always only one reality.

I can't understand nothingness. I can't understand it and I can't imagine it.

There's no such thing as perfect writing, just like there's no such thing as perfect despair.

They were each like a mirror for the other, reflecting the changes in themselves.