Chapter One

Whenever I try to write a word, or should I say type a word, there is a little man who's cowardly pulling me back. The word may not be exact, it may not sound good, it may fall flat, it may reveal too much. It may be black and white.

Have you ever tried to choose a font for what you're writing? The font which would reflect what you're saying, who you are. Apart from the fact that what you're saying and what you are may be two different things, or in fact maybe not a thing at all, is there in fact a one font which is worthy of carrying our words?

Finally I faced once again the old "Courier". The words appear in front of me as if I had just typed them on an old typing machine. When I get at the end of the line I almost expect to hear a bell warning me to start a new line.

The two mice are facing the window looking away from me. I suppose they need they room too.

By keeping the typing going it is much more difficult for the little man to stop me. I suppose it's the speed at which I type.

Finally the evening is staring at me. The day has not accomplished enough. I have not accomplished enough. Once again generations of disappointed parents stare at me disapprovingly.

My mind tries to pull a few last tricks. What can I do to quickly prove my worth? What can I do to pull out once again some smoke to throw at people's eyes and show them that my living another day was not futile.

To accept the futility of the day. The ultimate challenge. To accept the futility of life. The inevitability and obligation of life and the un-necessity and pointlessness of life. One other day filled with activities. One other pointless day.

Creepy evening. It arrives before I expected. And then again I can't wait for the evening to arrive. Because only in the evening I find I can do something without expecting anything.