My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.