It’s so warm and soft, that I can’t imagine anything better.
Why it was so simple for Allen Ginsberg? To express his feelings into a paper, I mean.
I’m trying to write something that has nothing to do with him. But I can not.
Every word, every sentence, even every stupid thought, I imagine myself living it with him.
It’s horrible to feel that nothing you can do will change that past, nothing that happens will make you forget that HE was there.
Worst of all is knowing that if you don’t feel alone, if suddenly someone appears at your side to make you feel better, you would not know what the hell to do.
It feels like I don’t fucking know what to do with HAPPINESS.
This is bullshit. And I’m too young for this…