Been thinking that I am not writing as much as I want. Been wondering why. Been explaining (myself, who else?) it is because of the lots of everythingelse in my life.
Not.
The reason is her. And again, her. She, the novel.
The novel done is not done. Here. Not in a drawer. Not in oblivion. Here. Her. Can´t refuse. Can´t avoid. Realize. I am not done. Hate to write. Have to write.
Write without her. Sail without wind, said Sikelianos.