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

no problem

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...