He loved being busy. He didn't want many vacant hours in the day to think about all the things that had befallen him, or rather all that hadn't, about this emptiness in him for which he didn't have the word. His incompletion, his unfocused life, his beginning waiting for an end, or was it his end waiting for a beginning, his story waiting for a new plot.
1 comment:
Stories happen when we are not looking..
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