...And time trembles away

He finds Orhan Pamuk again. And evenings bring music with them. Of course, the driving these days is without sweat.

There are some more conversations on the phone. There are voices on the other side that seek some kind of comfort, of assurance in moments of weakness. He wonders if he will be a friend or a foe. A foe might oblige, fill the air with words ringing like notes from a song, the voice on the other side would turn calm. But nothing would change. A moment's peace. Like a cover upon a wound, turning a blind eye to its presence. So, that in times of "need" the foe would be turned to. A friend would not mince words, harsh as the truth might be. For he knows, it's only actions or an altered perspective that can change anything. Otherwise, it is like stepping from one illusion to another. A lot of our misery is of our own making and not a reflection of circumstance.

Sometimes it can become difficult to distinguish our friends from our foes, he wonders.