The last bubble. It's close to bursting. Anytime now.
Coincidentally, this is my 100th post. Very undramatic.
I've noticed that The Beatles' songs contain a lot of wisdom. You have to listen hard, but it's there.



I feel the need to write, to say something. I don't know what. I'm surrounded by half-truths, shadows, ambiguities, uncertainties. And alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
It's strange. I've never felt the need to wake up in the middle of the night and write. Until now. And yet, I don't know what to say.
Are all good writers gay?
When I was younger (not that I'm terribly aged), the words used to flow more easily. It's easier when life is less complicated.
Jesus, I sound like I'm on death row.
"One fine day we'll fly away
Don't you know that Rome wasn't built in a day"