Why the hell I feel that far from me when I am "on the road", not thinking about where and when to go, but going. And not really a need to really walk, but sitting and working and sitting and working and writing and writing, concepts, ideas, mails - not knowing if I'm lucky or not because I don't have the time to ask my inner me.

And IF it feels more familar to recognize the melancholy ("hello, darkness my old friend ...") than feeling beeing lucky I am frightened a little bit and work and write and write and work again more and more and more.

Have to take care not to leave me.