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.