Mind's spinning. I'm not content. Don't get anywhere 'cause of gettin' everywhere. This is a breed of float I ever hated. Not even sky is the limit. And that is why you don't get anywhere. Without limits, your work suffers from the down to earth flavour it actually needs. Mind is aching, itching like a fresh wound. As always I wonder 'Why now, why here?' Moments later catch my mind pondering the idea of the universe delivering the music and the lyrics you're in need of. What the fuck has this to do with the work I try to do here and now?!? Don't speak to me of a lack of concentration - if it were only that I'd easily manage. Got used to it throughout the years. Creative process often feels utterly schizophrenic. You never really get used to this. Is it me, is it something/somebody else? And if so - what the hell do I represent? Am I out of mind or perfectly in it but beyond my abilities to understand what is going on? This is a gift. This is a curse. This is a plague. This is a not-too-much-loved miracle