In that period of time he began pouring his trust into a half a pint cups of local beer and cheap cigarettes, local as well, which he could afford, who would have guessed?...
He used to gaze at girls with a curious and contemplative look that was also full with sadness and despair, instantly advocating for the holy mission and function of the prostitutes and the escort ladies and he already a abandoned the idea of having a pet except the turtle.
From time to time he use to scribble incomprehensible prose and poetry and couldn't find any condolence even in Hemingway or Cobain.
His only consolation was with the pen and watching the sunset off the sandy sea shore, for he could be sure that the same sun isn't dying buy only moving to a better place.
It seemed like he will leave after him numerous beginnings for stories and a lot of middles as well...
Sometimes, it would have seems to him that the first end he's going to write is going to be his own.
Leaving behind communities of characters that all their world is nothing but a few words, that seems like they are going to prosper and blossom but they were faded and gone like the sole of the candle's flame on top of a birthday cake, which was blown off while giggling her childhood laughter, leaving behind a delicate and curly thread of smoke, that is gone in a blink of an eye.
At the age of twenty-two he began writing his own eulogy, like this miserable old woman, preparing her own shrouds, but from that too he was finely despaired.