I wanted to grab the little book I talked about yesterday, in order to digitize some of the weird poems that are in it. As I opened the box that was laying under my bed, my eyes fell on a smaller, even older book that was also in the box. After some hesitation, I opened the book and read a few lines. Man, my writing is like some high percentage alcoholic drinks; the older, the heavier.
The more I read, the more interesting it gets, though.
The oldest story is about my first girlfriend, and dates back to July, 1994.
There's not that many more stories in it (I wrote in about twice a year or so), and most of them are the women I've loved (and no, I will not put these stories online :p).
The very last comment in the book is a rather heavy one; P.S. Race is dead. R.I.P.
Race is the pseudonym as a grafitty artist of a friend of mine who killed himself about years ago.
I was just thinking of putting a little memorial page about him on the internet.
Hmm... where was I... ah yes, the book with poems. I think it's a bit late (5:09 AM) to make a poems section for my site, I will do that after I've had some sleep, and worked on the things that should have priority (as in school assignments and professionl jobs) a little. I will now resort to showing one poem (in Dutch), taking a shower, and going to bed.
Tijd voor een leuk gedicht.
Eén met harmonie en evenwicht.
Niet al teveel zwartgaligheid.
Niet over pijn, angst en spijt.
Maar eentje dat is afgericht.