I'm sitting outside at a weathered wooden table listening to sounds of Bob Marley and Jimmy Cliff while watching an iced coffee sweat. Ironically looking at equations for calculating total lung capacity while smoking a cigarette. Out of this dink'a dink'a kind of mood a short poem has magically appeared:
Those little sacks,
that cannot balloon anymore.
Shall fall in it,
Shall burry in it.
Back to the drawing boards.
Just do me one favor, don't forget to constantly question everything you see today. Be curious, be persistant, be open, and be out.
