All these unspoken words. All these spoken words worthless without you listening. After all our arguments. Is there so much left to say. A lifetime of a child. Unspoken. In my head I speak them all. It’s like singing without making a sound. Quiet. All these words. I tell them my friends. I write them…

I am so annoyed by people who claim to make art. It is such a self-entitlement. It is so arrogant. Why do people who claim to make art describe their enlightenments as complex as possible? Like „A mild breeze ascended the embankment of his sitting bones.“ I know nothing more ugly than making a fuzz…