Days pass slowly. In the fog of everyday’s life, my own world spins, orbiting around the incoherent ideas and sparks of creativity. Sometimes I wonder where I lost so much time, a whole year, if not more. I am rebuilding it; stars over my head and in the heart – silver splinter for a werewolf-self.
I am not completely well. But not as bad as to howl.
Howling means that the wound is still there. It’s more like a scar.
In the headphones Her Ghost in the Fog. Gothic mood passed, but I sense it will return in a blink of a light side of the moon.