Some random thought of the day: absence of mind adds a significant advantage to inveigle oneself a free pass to artistry. 

Wondrously, how it can really be like getting blood out of a stone. But.. I'm scraping the barrel.

As I've been having quandaries, it has been somewhat complicated to write something down. To write anything. From time to time I find myself in a most awkward predicament which have given me a devil of a time. I am not that sure about my views anymore. Furthermore, I retain this phrase: best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray. 

I truly am in a time warp, am I not? Some flamboyant manners have hindered my resentment, but led me away from writing, bringing my explicit work to a halt. Let it not be a deteriorating!

My neighbours are now seemingly oblivious of their nocturnal hubbub. Besides I have a wild surmise non of them has a clue about their son jeering at Ms Stern, the elderly lady living across the street. What an impudent brat!

In dreams I occasionally stand face to face with his blackened eyes that look devoid of sleep, evoking awe in me. And all the sudden, I seem crude to myself.

When something is urgently needed, be it solace or affilatus, an hour with Schubert always grants it.