I don't know how and where to start. I mean, these hands are full of paints, these thoughts are pushing my limit, and these tasks seem to haunt me every minute.
I feel like watching this invisible film in front of me, surreal yet beautiful. Lively images waiting to be patterned on wood, permanently. What about this ink inside my skin? It keeps on pushing me to read it all over again until all my Dalinian dream, and my current reality mixed up together and finally scattered to the ground.

It's not long since my first encounter with one of the most inspiring human beings on earth, Mr. John Petrucci, guitar god made in some progressive metal kingdom. It's not very long since I dropped a tear in front of my dear Salvador Dali's painting in an art museum overseas. It's not long since I turned nineteen, since my parents yelled at me to grow up again. Universe knows that I'm way taller.

A friend of mine called me this afternoon, he told me that he's afraid of the future. Ain't we all do that? He is now living in London. I'd love to replace his place in a heartbeat. But is it necessary? Does living in London guarantee me to grow up like Salvador Dali?

Fuck.

Now I'm lost. I'm lost between the truth and hope. I'm lost between expectation and intuition. And this ink  under my skin says "No masterpiece was ever created by a lazy artist." I'm not lazy, I'm just dizzy.