Nobody is here to praise the other, all they want is to be praised themselves.
It is ultimately true that things with no meaning but that seem to have a meaning will be praised.
There are thing that have no apparent significance, and then someone finds what it was supposed to tell, even when it was not supposed to tell anything at all.
Some things have no meaning at all until time passes, people die, people born, ideas change, you died and people forgot and people remembered; and that stupid, absurd and obvious became meaningful.
No one ever thinks that the guy next to you at work is the monster. Instead, we search under our beds and down dark alleyways, looking over our shoulders at every glance in fear of a monster lurking in the shadows. But who's to say that we are really safe anywhere? I thought I was safe at work. And I was. But poor young girl, she wasn't. She worked in the same building, with the same people, but her safety was stolen away when he thought he could get away with something. He took every bit of her and broke her down. He belittled her and embarrassed her name, all to get what he wanted. A small office, a young helpless girl, and his restless hands. Where does it stop?
rhythmically, the tap dripped and the sewing machine whirred as he clinked on the edge of the glass while stirring the liquid.like clockwork, he heard a nervous tapping on the green arched door.cool air rushed into the room causing the chain on his pocket watch to swing gently.
sliding down her hood, she revealed to him her long tendrils of golden curls which were arranged perfectly to frame her angelic face. exchanging a small smile, he stepped aside, inviting her inside.
watching intently, she noticed how the grooves that had been dug into his forehead over the years resembled crop rows.his worn hand reached out for hers and the warmth of his palm settled the cold of her fingers and together, they found balance
Why is there a writer's fixation about the sea? I'm probably not a real writer then. Because all the great ones had this obsession about that dark blue giant pool (or, sometimes, about the skies - made of the same blue). I prefer to write about a guy taking a shit, staring at his toenails - that need to be cut.
Ugh, the sea. Is it because of the vast emptiness of a never-ending blue? Does that reflect the inside of a true writer? A sight the goes way deep into nothingness. Yeah, I can see why it appeals. But, still, it does not inspires me. I might as well continue to write about dirty toilets.
The Barbershop runs at night. Each costumer has it's own story to share. All the chairs are covered with a black leather.
The barber hears each story like we read a book. In every phrase is sort of magic, that keeps the whole barbershop warm and bright.
Everything gains life as the words come out their mouths and the scissors clings and cuts and the beards get trimmed.
As the barbershop closes, the stories remain.