I will never be a poet. But it happens from time to time when words starts popping out from my head that wants to be written. Without any particular reason as I know. It just feels good to get it out from my head. It often starts very random and then I try to put it together into something.
There he is. Without no name. Without a face. Without a memory. There is so many, so who really care. Which is mine. Oh, I forgot I’m nobody. I’m your shadow in the dark. The light in the sun. The face in the window. Where am I going.
Actually almost all of my posts start in similar way. It’s seldom that I have any manuscript ready in my head of what to write about. And then it grows into something.
Sometimes I wonder why I’m doing it. Writing about everything and nothing. It’s probably more for myself than someone else. Like a tree that wants to grow.
And the Black Coffee project continues with random moments of shots whenever at the round table (ok, and in close range around the round table). Coffee is a good companion when you try to think. And beside that snus. You know, that tobacco stuff from Sweden that you put under your lip.
the moon the tulips and the coffee