must [need] to write. Words. My callygraphie is a reflection of my mind. Bewildered. Panicked. Yes I am. It's like dying looking for a way to keep the bleeding, she gropes afollée. His hands tremble while his breath is lost. I'm like with my notebook. Seeking, groping me the first pen falls to hand. I'm more attention to aesthetics. The fanatic aesthetics is no longer there. In these moments only the points, commas and word counts. The words above all. I have cravings for everything, but I do nothing. Except write. I have desires to live that is punctuated with the dying. Yes, sometimes it's so strong that only death ...
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