The story I'm going to tell, is not my story.
It is the story of someone, who is telling a story which is very similar to his own.
The dream I will remember, won't be mine.
It's the dream of someone who remembers a dream, that is very similar to his own.
I think of stories I like to make stories.
To tell them. I know this must sound like the dream of little Iasonas. What will he be when he grows up.
When I wake up, it'll happen again.
It'll start all over...
Saturday, October 12, 2013
σαν νόθο γιο της λάσπης που κοιτάει τον ουρανό έτσι απόμεινε εδώ ένας πέτρινος γίγαντας πόσο ακόμα θα υπάρχω στις ρακένδυτες μνήμες σου
