Oh God, it's almost eleven; my eyes are thirsty for a good night sleep and I'm still not done. I want to write about Il Colosseo or the loveliness of Fontana di Trevi, but I'm unable to describe them in a sensational way as is their real nature. I think of the lady in pearl with her crossed elbows and her effortless posing in front of the black and white lens, but I will ruin the whole saga by dragging it long until dawn. Oh, another one just crossed my mind. Shall I write about her unreal pink hair or her baby blue shadows? Or about the creepy lost soul and the random doorbells, whose tolling was once echoing nonstop around me?
They are all indescribable tonight while my body is delayed and my mind is suffering from the worst writer's block. I can feel a vacuum sucking out creativity from my brain. I want to break the machine into a million pieces and kill the barriers, followed by the clichés. I want those broken bits to mark the big change in my world.
My own happy world.