Living and writing

It rarely turns out exactly the way you plan.
In the beginning, there’s the general idea of the road, the milestones and the outcome.

And suddenly it has a mind of its own.
Not necessarily the great changes, but quite important ones non the less.

And everything starts to change.

Still living, still writing.

It will probably turn out all right in the end.

Still a bit confused.

Is life imitating art or the other way around?


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