I hope the my message has arrived. My copy is an English Learn that has plain blue cover with extra flaps to hide the blurbs, while yours is an American. These day I`m finding it hard to put my minds to words. Or maybe that`s just an impossible thing to do. There is no way you can put your mind into some other form, words are just your interpretation of your thoughts, a muddled carbon copies of your thoughts, sometimes you get it right, most of the times, absolutely wrong

I want to able to sort my mind and then spread it like I spread all my papers in the yellow surface of formica dining table in my grandmother`s kitchen. But now I can`t even go that place anymore. The last time I was there, the formica dining table has gone replaced with a formal, boring wooder table with four chairs it. And the last time I saw my grandmother, she was laying naked on her side. Old men wrapped her pale body in white kaffan struggling with the unexpected heaviness of her corpse. They said I had to say goodbye, but I was too young to understand, and too old to cry.

I`ve tried to picture myself back in the kitchen, but someone has always been there first, sitting in the boring dining table. I`ve even tried to recreate the formica dining table back in my own mind to spread all my thoughts on.

“the future is such a strange word. There is no way I can find out what`s gonna happen in the next six months and I feel so scared.”

“I want to stop worshipping and still I find god. Perhaps only death stops worships.”

“What is death? I`m not afraid of it but I`m not giving my self into it either.”a

“what is life? If life is like the one I`m Living, I don`t want it”.

“what happens in the heart splatters red blood to the glass windows of your soul.”

“I`m dying.”

But those thoughts are just lying there, waiting to be put together into some form I have never been able to find out.

I know I want to write. But how can we learn to write? Is it learnable after all? Or is it just something that`s born with you, like a mole on your left cheek?