So where do you go? Back to the bottle And back to a tiny room somewhere. And wait. And wait, and wait. That's all.

What a pitiful mass of dangerous nothing

I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again.

Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.

But you don't have to fit in to be okay. Believe me! I am the not-fitting-in world expert. I have not fit in in maybe five different countries so far. I am homelandless. I even make mistakes when I speak Bulgarian. But it's not big deal, not really. It's not the end of the world, right? It's okay.

Nothingness not being nothing, nothingness being emptiness.