A question that comes to mind is: what is it all about? It’s about everything and nothing all at once. It’s my work as a writer, if I may call myself one, in the rawest form I can present it. Hence, the lack of pictures, comment boxes or any other distractions.

I don’t write about anything in particular. I believe that limits me as a writer, but more so as a human being. Also, as of summer 2021, I cannot write stories. The best I can manage are these journal entries and those vignettes. I believe if you have nothing else to do, you may find some mild entertainment in my words.

In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my fact-less autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it’s because I have nothing to say.

Text 12, The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa