Is It Save To Wax If U Have Hemroids

Write

Writing is never easy .... not for the magician, who still struggles with its own history. Revolves around the theme, writes page after page, erasing and rewriting, his soul and waste paper, looking for the right words to tell, but once again the words escape, harassing, elusive. Puffs, each page is torn another excavation to be done in the heart in search of what little drawing words in his mind is clear, but it is not on paper, maybe it is not yet in the heart, in the belly.
He gets up from his desk, goes to the wet bar, to get a nightcap. Back at the table, clutching his glass of liquid Amber and rereads, patiently, the little that has produced. He wants to throw it all away again, but try to trust again instinct, or obstinacy, that says, 'No, try again, keep aside, it's all material that will, sooner or later .... '.
slams a fist on the table, growling to himself. Look out the window the black sea, agitated by the wind and rain that shakes, moves his hands to his mouth, trying to silence the discordant voices within him bicker. Finally collect the glass, emptying it in one gulp, he gathers the cards and puts in the drawer, along with the other. Close the ink, dry foam, leaving these small gestures will mark the end of a difficult day and goes back to the couch, letting the mind wander while staring into the fire and salamanders that play into it to chase. With graceful step, Bonecrusher and salt on the sofa with a soft meow and the gentle lay her paws on his stomach, looking at him inquiringly. The mage focuses his eyes on the cat's face and smiled again. The caress, enjoying its cast, letting the cat met the rub her head against his face. With a sigh, takes him in her arms and finally decided to go to bed.
Perhaps some stories are not meant to be told. Or perhaps they are too strong, too complex because it is easy to tell, and this makes them more valuable than others.
Goodnight, fantanarratori.