It's Saturday and not yet seven in the morning but I've been awake for several hours. Reading, lazying close to the fireplace sipping coffee laden heavily with cream. The music is softly playing in the background. A friend recently told me that I think too much but I want to take advantage of the last days that I can spend by myself before starting another chapter.

Every now and then I come across a passage perhaps only a phrase, which has meaning for me, and then it becomes a part of me. I’ve got out of the book all that’s any use to me, and I can’t get any more out of it if even I read it a dozen or more times. When I read a book, I read it with my eyes only. You see, it seems to me, one is like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are things that have peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there.

I was thinking about what I have written lately and what it is that has made me so cynical. It must be some kind of self-defence to hide behind irony and sarcasm. But I guess self-defence is only used when it is needed...right?