Insomnia has turned into a writing block instead of inspiration. Restless but useless body is drowning in feathery duvets and mountains of pillows. 22 minutes of life were stolen today by 2 lonely cigarettes that kept feeding some faint determination to the brain. 22 minutes that made the body older and the soul warmer. Warmth that has been drawn away from hands and feet by vinous Nicotine who kept aging the fragile wrap of the skeleton. As the ink fades away from body, the meaning behind it is forgot. A long-gone promise, an inspiration, a wish for infinity and a forgotten spirit of a passionate soul. Nobody is born into greatness, for it has to be earned, with small victories and big mistakes. Yet mistakes are never made twice, for second one is a choice. But in the end, you make that greatness yours, for nobody can embrace it the way only you can. And then you blow away another 11 minutes into eternity.
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