“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”
— Virginia Woolf
Today was particularly hard. In the afternoon starts your script writing class in Berlin. I hope you will take it, but I don’t know if you go.
I went shopping at Mubi and bought you a present, nothing big, just a notebook and some pens.
I had it wrapped and wrote down a quote from Virginia Woolf, and handed it over to your Professor to give you after class as a surprise. Was that okay? Or is this too much? Am I infringing on your space, I don’t know…
The uncertainty if I’m doing too much or not enough at all is wearing me down, I can not eat, or breath, or walk, I have to lie down.
Darkness is clouding my brain, my sight turns foggy and the night takes over this sunny afternoon.