The only thing I'm dreaming about now is to break free from this reception room and to return to my good ol'place. Where nobody disturbs me, where there are no telephones madly ringing each minute and where there's no this walking shit, these show-offs who call themselves chiefs...
I've always been deeply convinced that secretary's work is not my cup of tea, even now I'm strictly against it, everything inside me is rising against it.
And now John Mayer's "In Your Atmosphere" is constantly playing in my head, and I'm about to cry and at the same time I'm angry like one hundred and two imps, and I'm dreaming of a sweet juicy orange cut into thin slices, and arms to hug me, and coffee with a cloud of cream above the cup, and a bright kite in sunny sky, and my writings... and... and...
And there's unfinished painting waiting for me at home in my writing table, the future image is already glittering in front of my tired eyes, I already see colours, contours and final strokes, if only I could continue painting right here... Yearning...
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