Well, nothing has changed as usually. Still the gray mist around me, but that's not the point.

During this week while I couldn't sleep I started writing another story... perhaps another one that will never be finished. Why do I tend to have tons of ideas, but never the will to write them all down in contiguous thing?

I've moved again. Fifth time past three years. One could think of it as of annoying thing... which is... but I seem not to care a single bit about it anymore. I just got used to id. Wherever I move, my true home lies far, far away.

One could think that my depression is over. If so, then I am great at acting. Or I simply got used to it too much to notice. What worries me more is the frequency with which I update my journal. It's far too often as for me. Well, perhaps I need a place to write my thoughts on.

Well, that's it. No more I have on my mind to write.