Ah, to you all,
I've to come that winter always brings about a huge interior turmoil. Always, without fail.
Thing is, in theory, this winter was supposed to be a little different. Only it suddenly appeared as if time had flown away startled into a deep hole-
what do I do with my life apart from travel? How do I live meaningfully when I decide to gain some roots? When will I finally give my words to a longer piece, a novel, a series of short stories?
And perhaps most importantly, where will I stay?
How to find a place now, of all times?
