Freaked out

I should be drawing or editediting my diaries. It's been a while. It's been a while and things haven't been made in that time.
I feel lost, yet too comfortable in such a mess. Isn't this sad?
I light up another cigarette and the music of the Marchas Populares de Lisboa breaks the silence of the room.
I should be doing something. Instead, I smoke and slowly type these words on my mobile's screen.
I should be drawing. The paper and the pencil are right on my legs.
The diaries have been waiting for too long. I should be reading, choosing, cropping drawings to be sticked on a new diaries' pages.
The night melts away slowly. Hours drip away.
I choose the quietness of this room to the crowd in Lisbon. At a point, I would freak out.
I try to get focused. I am driven away by the rhythmic of the music. I turn my face aside.
I'm freaked out.
I'm freaked out about everything.
It's over.

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