drives the flow of ideas sluggish. You are standing on the shore and look at. Can one, two pebbles jumping. The sun is warm on the water. Now and then a fish jumps. You admire the colorful dragonflies. Leave the feeder. The flow accelerated. Wind comes up. Very gently, he moves you through his hair. You're leaning back his head, blink in the sky. Since pull over a few clouds. White, cuddly. Nothing dramatic. Continue writing.
Eventually the paper in the waste book shines not so white. You take off his sunglasses. But instead of the golden evening mood that you expected in the sky, brewing there, thick, purple clouds. The sun peeks out through a few times a few holes in the clouds. Then darkness descends on the flow. You notice that it accelerates, the wind picks up, flips the pages in the waste book. Unpleasantly cool, so one day, and the water dragged branches and all sorts of stuff with it. The driftwood caught in the reeds on the bank, already formed an island of trees and branches, the middle one shoe, a first drop of rain blurs the ink, the water rises, rises, roars and surges, floods the investors. You pull one's feet, jump on, passes over the trembling wooden walkway, jump ashore, but the river rips the piece of land on which you stand, from the shore. You schlingerst through the foaming water grab, by air, the waste book is long away, the pen also, where is the top where the bottom? Panting, you ruderst with the poor, a deserted kayak by shooting, the flow keeps you in the middle of the river, no chance to come to the shore, there are rocks, the river pushes you right to it ... CUT ... Sometimes it seems
almost as if one could drown in the flood of ideas ...
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