Reference Sheet Line Art Wolf

I'm Back (To Black).

So I put down a lot 'of words since I started keeping a diary.
Not as much as I wanted, but certainly more than I thought to write about it.

Yet once it was so easy.

Just today I found, dusting off the shelves crowded with books and papers, one of my old poetry, verses that I had forgotten even the existence, but what has given the black pen on the paper, beyond the feelings of the past, is an ability to express feelings simple: a linear flow of thoughts and dense at the same time.

I wonder what has changed, if perhaps the thoughts have ceased to be linear, or no time to rearrange them, or I just lost the imagination to mix, the fact is that I can not find that satisfaction, quell'autocompiacimento in rereading my notes, nor a sense of liberation in the forum.



But as long as I will continue, despite everything, to find a way to do so, will well.
I'm not complaining.

Should I talk more than me, here's a connection.
I've talked enough about my feelings, my passions, my values, but what makes me me ? Anyone sitting idly in front of a monitor, would have to say about feelings, passions, values. But what makes that "anyone" a "single copy"?
Maybe I should just fill one of those tests, the type

Name: Manuela
Age: 20
color underwear you're wearing right now: Wisteria

but to serve my purpose?
I doubt it.

I wish my friends talk about me, that's what I'd like.
I wish my sister was complaining about my disorder, Carla confess that embarrassing details of my adolescence, that Dominic smiled looking back on his birthday, which Stephen spoke of the long evenings to laugh at anything.

I hear that all of these words. Why are my
certainly does not help, because my did not ever really heard.
After all this theater, this pointless blah blah, it's just a cry, a desperate cry in the air runs to meet him one day that will give meaning to these letters and spaces, for now questions.

"Half of what I say is meaningless, But I say it just to reach you."

Motion Sensor Replacement

Ersilia sleeping already.

Happy birthday to me.

I wonder how you can forget the joy, make it part of a distant past and untouchable ... when up to one second before it was the only tangible thing.

I wonder what I should do with all the pure intentions and actions.

wonder why I should be so inconsistent.
Everything inconsistent.



I look at my bracelet.
And basically just a wish attached to my wrist, a desire not yet realized, can keep me company.

Happy Birthday, I wish you (not) all your dreams can come true.