Time moves in it special way in the middle of the night.
My priority is my books, at least at this point. What I have to do is write the narrative of this time.
Maybe the only thing I can definitely say about is this: Thatโs life. Maybe the only thing we can do is accept it, without really knowing whatโs going on.
Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.
Killing time is not an easy job.
The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.