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( A kind of disagreeable comfort emerges from the paper of my books not only as a illusory presence but also as a world-weariness. Throughout this letters, I can smell this uncertainty about the fate of dedicate my entire life to unreal things when this people around me are killing each other, and when, no matter what I do, the gray colours are filling the world with hopelessness. It's not a tedium about the life, not even the dispair of think as a lonely human being, but each day I wake up being conscious of the irreality of the images in my mind, and this awareness also forces me to confront my own mortality and face the possibility that, like the forgotten books, I might sink into oblivion. I refuse it, but at the same time I'm falling in the spiral of the comfort.... in that "just being" mode that I've hated all this time.

In this point, in this moment, in this deep silence I just want to be a good person, but day by day it seems to be harder. I just want to do the things that I must do. I just want to understand these pieces of life and pain tangled in that "everything" that is able to see his own destruction, I just want to know why all this shit is becoming so usual, and why this dark colour is becoming into every-day's life and is locating itself in the deepest houses of silence inside me, inside the world. I don't want to be like that sadness in the faces of the people who walk in the city. I refuse to be the dying walker through the streets.

It's just a hidden place.

Indeed, a common place. )