När jag vet vet jag. När jag undrar försöker jag förstå.

Jag vaknade tidigt idag men inte kunde gå up, utan att veta varför, jag gav min hjärna lite mer tid, för att hinna bearbeta problemet, ge mig lösningen, jag var halvvaken och efter några timmar min hjärna gav mig lösningen. Jag kallade mig själv med mitt gamla namn och sa gå up. Jag gick up för att jag fick den energi jag behövde. Att ta ett helt nytt namn och efternamn har påverkat mig mer än jag trodde. Jag ska söka vidare för att se vad andra säger om saken och sedan vidta åtgärder. Jag måste lösa det här problemet. Så är det bara.

Outside your window part II

A place to call home . . . how many would really understand what these words mean to me? Probably few, I could have this conversation with a stranger in the jazz bar, over a drink or with a familiar face – meaning the waiter or the owner of the jazz bar. But really, honestly, why should I talk to someone else? What good would it do? It is just facts, the simple facts of life, mmm cars are passing and I can smell the fumes, the fragrance of the city.

Well, a place to call home. Heh, there is no place like home they say and that is so true. Few years ago, if someone asked me, yes, I would say that I was on my way home. But what does the word home meant to me? Well, home equals with Inside The Mouth Of Hell, oh yes that is an accurate description. But my house means. Today. Means the absence of Sound. The absence of another human will. Tranquility. What else do I need? Peace. A place to call home, my house, my shelter, the place where my soul can rest. I am getting use to that, it feels good.

Somewhere outside your window

Someone is playing Soul Finger, live . . . it’s been so long but still the music touches softly the chords of the heart. Outside a jazz bar the wind whispers secrets to the trees and birds keep chirping, just before the church bell rings; it’s past ten now and the birds are resting. Ten o’clock outside a jazz bar the street lights light up the pavement and the door knob is filled with fingerprints and moisturizing hand lotion . . . glass bottles land in the recycling bin, the waiter opens the squeaky back door, I better move on. My shadow and I, we have a home, a place to call home . . . good night birds