I like inspiration.
I lack inspiration.
It's all so quiet, it's all so still, Bjork would sing. I'm back in my calm, yet deep waters, back home from time to time, where all is charmingly the same, even my own troubled being (perhaps if man were stable, he would indeed be perfect). I search more and more distant horizons, yet home is what I found, and all I have. And in this moment of divine shiver, after I carried the lit Easter candle to my parents' place, in this place I stand for the more I walk outside it, I can't help but think of the glorious state of being human. I give you two candid stories of being just that...
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