Each morning the same ritual repeats itself. Much of the nightmares fades away. I don’t dream anymore of physic top health; instead my unconscious mind is aware of the change in reality.

I wake up and my belly tells me in pain language that the process of adaptation is long and painful.

And than driven by this pain its here; the words flow from the mind into the pen and fingers. I write like a bird from great heights totally free. No stories but ideas for live.

Freedom writers don’t write in comfort; they write in danger; out of the box. Out there in the wild. In the forrest of broken dreams, shattered hopes and tortured lives. These trees of mind have shaped life. And at dark their branches wave the shadows of horror. And we – we just must wait until the sun makes its reappearance.

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