It’s nights like these that I sit somewhere outside, freezing my ass off. And I know that it’s already way too late for me to be out because I have to get up at 5am the next day. Still I sit, pull on my cigarette and at some point think I’ve got to write something. Not that I really know what, I just start writing. I do this because I’m feeling melancholy, reveling in thoughts of what might have been. I’m not sad perse. It’s more of an empty feeling, like something’s missing. Something that I know I’ll never find. And yet I keep on searching. Maybe it’s a person I haven’t met yet but whom I already miss. Or maybe it’s just a moment. Like in the movies, you know, where something happens out of nowhere and turns the protagonist’s life around. And in the end, aren’t we all the protagonists of our own little meaningless low-budget movies that no one will ever see?
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