Yesterday I started to read Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge /Rilke/. First it caused my sleepiness (heavy, bizzare, short dream), and next fear and sleeplessness. It was fear of death. I coudn't stand lying in my dark room, my empty room with white walls, my claustrophobic room, I had to stood up and went somewhere. In this way arised Secret Literary Diary of Malte.

My writing is just a writing of no importance. That's obvious and there is no question about it. What one can write to really feel that he had done something what has any meaning to the world. If it was about money, government, sports, politics , or male-female games and struggles, oh, this maybe would have that sacred meaning. But my writing has no meaning , therefore it implies i have no meaning either. I can write about the books, or movies or about the dozens of really weirdest examples ...