Nothing to call home about. I just want write. No lame life update. No dream narrative. Nothing. I'm getting attuned with life. I might go live in SF. I will get married. I create games. I'm writing a comic. And yet, all seems the same. It's not a bad life at all but I'm feeling less awed by the world. In two months I will travel to places like Amsterdam, Paris and London. By all accounts this is an ever improving experience, life that is. Yet, I have lost something. Every night I watch the stars. Beautiful. Hubble has fantastic images. Nonetheless, ¿when was the last time my breath was taken away? I still get merry by babies trying to play with my hair. I'm not getting bitter, but that's not enough. I need a change.

Truth is that I started writing this post without knowing where it might go. That's the way literature must be lived, I guess.