I have no idea what I'm doing here. I'm not working nor enjoying with something. I'm just writing some kind of philosophical text about god-knows-what. I'm unable to reach that sweet and confortable little space in my mind far above of all these void called "overthinking". No, I am not sure if this is possible at all. There's no calm or relax. Only get some of peace when I fly, when I go too far away, when I loose of sight the ground and I feel the wind on my invisible wings. As Icarus I flew too high and too much, and as Icarus I fell disgraced, mi burned hair and skin, mi blackened and useless stamps and soul, that make me unable to take wing. No, I am no more a sea bird searching the sun flying over the blue waves and the white clouds, I'm not feeling free or safe, I'm a caged canary, died by loneliness and solitude.