My longing for writing

After a brief cool down, they found the father of the child with the help of security guards. The child walked away from his father's hand; of course, how much can be held by the hands of a drunk father who fell to the ground repeatedly holding onto his son. Alice then stared at their poker chips with the latest money, pondering the employees' fake smile and the whiskey he had to drink, who knows how many drinks he could have to sedate.

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Like a man who realized that he was in a dream, he realized that his stepfather was destined to do so. When he was little he used to gather his stepfather from the gambling places around the corner, almost every night. What had happened was that he played a leading role in these bitter memories of his childhood.

She thought that living someone else's fate was like animating a character in the theater. Of course, the game was never interrupted while the fate of someone else was living and the game was not over. That is, until you come to the point where the suffering you suffered in this fate can no longer hold.

He got out of there as if he'd accidentally entered the casino. For the first time, he left the venue without losing the money he would earn in a sober manner. Every step of the way to his boarding house came to mind a new question; who, what others liked, who had fate in his life, what he did not want to live again, well, when his own destiny would begin.

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He entered his room and turned on the unfinished candle on the table without turning on the light. Months ago, he threw a poem pad into a corner and opened a new page. With his longing for writing and flare up in his passion, the droplets began to drop repeatedly on the page.

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