Weaving, weaving, weaving. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He’s trapped in another dimension, close to the land of Barbie dolls. I am here, enslaved by the degree I wanted so much and of which I keep doubting. I read, he reads, we type.
Six years, and we’ll get out of the labyrinth. Nous sortirons.
Six years seem like an awful lot of time. All I can do is seek refuge in music. Will patience last so long?
Only time itself will tell.