A Saturday evening and a Sunday spent having a Numb3rs marathon and eating pizza.
Days are being wasted, but what else is there to do?
Writing is stupid. How can you be so sure, throughout your entire life, that this is what you want to do and are actually able to do, and still have nothing in your heart to express? I have nothing to say. I have nothing I even want to say. Most of the time I just want to withdraw into a corner and leave other people to their boring lives.
Other times, I dream about living in a big house where colourful, opinionated and brilliant people gather in a large kitchen to eat, work, talk, and - above all - be creative in every sense of the word. I see a large, wooden table strewn with laptops, coffee mugs, pencils and paint brushes, physics textbooks, maybe a half-empty bottle of wine. I smell cinnamon coffee and a whiff of the wet dog that is nosing around people's feet. I hear voices raised in good-natured arguments on Hegel's philosophy or the benefits of the latest architectural design software, and in the background, Bach or Billy Joel is playing.
In this company, I might find something to express.
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