2 minue read | 2 hours work
I imagine that women have their fingers stabbed and they carry a foxglove to the store, because since so much sewing, foxgloves have almost grown to their fingers and they travel with them in public transport and maybe go home with it and cook dinner with it. Until one of the sons finds a silver foxglove in the vegetable soup instead of the piece of carrot.
3 minutes read | 4 hours work
How much does blogging cost? Nothing. At the beginning. Until you look around. Until you realize everything. Until you get writing into your fingers. Until you find your style. Until you find the right angle when taking pictures. Until you stop being ashamed to pose. Until you stop feeling embarrassed at the events and in front of family and friends. Until you are not afraid to skip your shadow.
2 minutes read | 3 hours work
I drink coffee and slowly finish my last cigarette in my life. Perhaps. Because I still have an emergency one in the work drawer. In case – if something happens. In my head I write a farewell post that I will never send to anyone. Because there were cigarettes with me. They were bored with me, cried, listened to my favorite songs, danced with me more than one night at my flat, they tasted the best after dinner and sex, that they just burned out in the ashtray and they disappeared in loneliness, that I spent a pleasant break with my colleagues, that wine somewhere on the terrace tasted a little more, that the people hated me for the cigarette smoke around me, that they looked at me crookedly, gossiped about me that I stink to someone, that they were here with me, in good and in bad.
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