Free writing. That means I have to write down something fluently without thinking anything. Just the instants between my fingers and the thought. Nope, even not the fingers and the thought, maybe it's about the skin and the fragments flowing in my mind. But how can I write without planning? How can I give the pressure to keyboards without considering the affairs in the day time, and my life in this unknown city? How can I type these letters to clarify my interpretation in my works without organizing what I've seen in my surrounding? And how can I perceive those sensitive feelings in my day dreams without dreaming in the darkness nights to understand the isolation is the truly essence of human being?
Maybe I should hold the pen again, like I took the pencil to sketch as well. By the strength of handful, perhaps I can realize what should I write, how can I tell. Though I might never brief the point to classify my thought. The ambiguous chaos is my favorite sin; such as the life in this reality. People are selfish. My biggest selfishness is my kindness. In my subconsciousness I can do everything if I treat people with terderness. I'm wimpish sillyness. I want to be as free as those alphabets but I guess eventhough I could only be the strokes of the latters. Endlessly. Kind of circulation. In the world which merely belongs to me.
The fucking universe wherever has the excuse to be.
