Sometimes we feel on days like there is nothing else to do but wait for the next ones, that what could happen the next day would be better than the current grey of the rising sun. Sometimes we open our eyes to nothing; our dreams have taken on the guise of a nightmare, but when we wake up, the drama is stillborn, and that’s good. But our eyes are still not looking at anything. They prefer colors and promises.
I’m stupidly waiting for an answer from the publishers. There are thus days that hope that their efforts will not have been in vain. Some hours teach modesty. There is, there will always be something to live for.
It’s like at the station. As the saying goes, we always take a train for the next few hours.