I don't feel like blogging anymore, because I have a notebook. It allows me to be as sentimental, as stupid as I want to be. Besides, I lose my train of thought these days. I think when I'm sitting in an auto or climbing stairs. But apart from that, I don't think much.

Today, I was standing in the stairwell thinking, how all this seems like a part of some lazy story I once wrote. The Chinese bulbs were going crazy outside, fuchsia, yellow, blue and green. Drums. Chants. Noise. I wasn't celebrating anything. I didn't have a single story to tell, to sell, to chew upon. I felt so terribly boring and unattractive for five really long seconds. And then I climbed the rest of the floors and let the yellow warmth of my house take care of me.

I'll talk to you later. When I have a story to tell.