Einhvern veginn bregst hugvitið manni þegar maður þarf kannski helst á því að halda. Að taka eitt og eitt próf aftur væri ekki það versta sem ég gæti hugsað mér en andskotinn hvað ég vildi oft að ég gæti stólað betur á það þegar kemur að hlutum sem raunverulega skipta máli. Þegar kemur að málefnum hjartans þá mun enginn leiðarvísir hjálpa okkur. Fólk kallar mig bitra og svartsýna en kannski er ég bara þreytt.

At the place where the world starts and ends both of them were born to the same mother. The daughter was created by all the beauty of the day and the son by the beauty of the night. The daughter's eyes had the deepness of the ocean, they were mysteriously blue and seemed to have no beginning and no end, her skin was the soft and bright daylight, the breeze of the morning and her hair was the first sunlight itself. Her voice was as beautiful as the song of the first bird, her lips the blossom of the first flower. She was playful and joyous. The son was dark and mystical in all his being. His eyes were dark and had the green shades of the northern lights, his voice calm and dim and his mind glorious as the eternity of space. He was strong and silent like the night. But he was peaceful as she was playful. Together they represented the perfection of the very first day.

Þetta er líf mitt þessa dagna, ég henti inn nokkrum myndum.
Ef ég fer að pæla of mikið í dag öskra ég og dett af slóðinni svo þetta dugar í bili, verð að koma einhverju í verk - lata Mæsa...