You’re special.
You’re so special.
Don’t make anybody else telling you what or who you have to be.
Because there’s no one else like you.

Promises which get lost in the palms of the one who reads them. She looks familiar.

Summer, 1999.

The necklace tight on my neck, some beneficial stone hanging on it. A shirt made of an oil’s fabric.
You take a pair of scissors and you snip the borders.

Because you are getting bored.

On a seesaw, while the line of the horizon comes up and down from your nose, you dream about your future. About your friends. About traveling around the world. About the beautiful woman body you will have, about your actress, pianist, singer career.

But when you need it, you can’t ever find a tissue to blow your nose.

Winter 2014.

Rooms packed with things, mail never read, people to meet, work to be done. You slacken it off and you call it entropy.

School play, you sing the Pink Floyd behind a grey sheet. You follow your schoolmates and you rip it, but you hate the din that it makes and you don’t understand the meaning of the song.
A thin guy will explain it to you many years later.

You’ve filled your life of expectations that you consumed before living them. But now you are on a queue to cash them in. To get the entire specialness, beauty, inimitableness that you were promised. But it is a long and bastard queue, the people push, lug, pull your coat and pierce your eyes with their fingers, because they know that there won’t be for everyone,
and so do you,

and that’s why you wait.