When you're bored, you can always draw a little.

I don't really know what I'm doing today.

The winds of change are blowing.

It was a sad grey morning. The coffee cup on the right left a still cloud of steam. The sky was above the treetops. Writing this morning felt like walking in waist-high water. Victorious and immobile.

The text rarely flows as you wish. But some days nothing moves. The forest is beautiful, but there is no one there. The wind is still and not a leaf creates anything. It is empty and no one is home.

Yesterday evening had also given nothing more than a headache that, of course, as usual, will not subside until half the day has passed. The wine was turned into brandy and cigars. The conversation had become more hostile until it finally became indifferent and incoherent. Nothing important was said and the headache could just as well be due to the unsaid as the booze.

In any case, it wasn't the best of mornings. Nothing was written and my eyes wandered to the window and the boring weather outside.