Dear reader
Every time I write something, I feel a certain way, I have fixed a certain emotion. Then the minutes tick by, the ink fades and the paper browns. I come back to sit down with the same paper but the paper sits down to a stranger. I interpret it differently, I feel differently, the fixed feelings had rusted away. So I ask you now to interpret these words:
No worries, no stress, lack of mistakes. Green leaves on the tall tress, with the gusting wind blowing against the green. Giving it a gentle sway. The big blue dashed with fluffy white. Against the horizon stands alone a strong yellow sun on the way to his pillow. Spotless, speckless. Perfect. Unfortunately that’s not really how it is. Waiting in the clouds there is a drizzle. Eventually the sun must go down. The world amongst its rays of hope and purities are the little imperfections that we get confused with. The source to our tears, heartaches and frowns. The leaves turn brown and crumbles away. The blue must turn black as the day passes into night, but only at night can you see the stars.
Yours sincerely Mr, Mr
Mr, Mr. 