The discouraging feeling that what I'm living right now is no more than the upteenth repetition of what has been lived, and that whoever wrote the book of my existance has already moved onto the next one before I even got to the end.
Death, eternal muse for every artist who can see deep enough to not be distracted by the beauties of this world, in the end she's the real protagonist.
If one day, looking at the sky, I won't feel any more marvel, that is the moment in which i'll be ready to die.
