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Writing gives me life.

Wear an hour writing. It's Friday afternoon, it is very cold outside and the sun stretches an afternoon clear as crystal. And if you say this is because I feel like one of those great emotions that do not fit in the chest, or at home, you could pour down the street like a bum and heavenly smoke, one of those emotions that only has a place in the momentary complicity of a friend, released a scathing comments on a coffee or a cold beer, and dissipated the moment that you've already said and that you have fallen, silent and static as the landscape.

But I'm alone and I'll say it here.

I

to tell you.

Writing gives me life.

if not arrive somewhere as a writer. But writing came to life. And if I get there, at least I get to taste this placebo him perfectly contrary to the emptiness, the despair, the heartbreak.