sleeping late, and sleeping some more
tired, more tired, dreaming, a bit galling
doing some laundry, drying, folding it away
and one more siesta in the end
feeling guilty, vague: ‘what a pity, this beautiful day...’
at last I go out
cycling, the wind on my skin, almost too cold
in a bookshop picking up one book after another, bored
and than the ‘damn’-feeling:
I was supposed to write myself, I want to write now
shit, no paper, no pen
I’m in a bar: ‘do I have anything to tell at all, to write?’
‘why do I want to do this in the first place?’
killing the idea even before it is born!
so I write, I write, I write...