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I think it has taken this long for the seriousness of all this to dawn on me. People often comment that I look younger than I am and I do. There is something about my smooth skin and slouching pose and delicate hands that flutter like moths, that does not betray my nearly three decades. But inside I am older, the smoke of half my life churning through blood vessels, choking vitality and coating my thoughts with dusty shadows. I can't hide my inside from the outside for very much longer, so I will have to repair it. Clean it out, air it, give it a new coat of paint, flesh out the half-life to give it substance that other people can see.

Well... I have not been able to write anything. see.

The headlights pierced through my eyelids as I squinted in horror, getting brighter every second as the car drew closer and closer to me. We both stopped, hands clamped tight around the steering wheel. We stared through our un-touched windscreens and looked directly into each others eyes. The traffic around us was noisy, still moving trying to avoid our near accident.

I wish I could de-frag my brain..

For what its worth...

Maybe tomorrow, I won't care about all those words you used to say.

A not chirpy poem!

Fictional account based on the life of Petar Shapollo, Enver Hoxha's double.

I've tried writing everything. Anything that would catch attention. Nothing did... it would begin with some beautiful piece of writing, all these glowing metaphors that meant nothing to me or the people reading it. So how can people love something that means nothing? They can't, so that's why I'm writing this. It might not mean anything to you, but at least it means something to me. At least something comes of it. Maybe it's a stupid something, but to be brutally honest, I couldn't care less.