My 265 Prinsengracht.

Sometimes it seems like I don’t even have the energy to hear a song. I want to write one, but words make fun with me for a while and then run away. At that very moment, or to be certain, this is the only moment when I can ask myself, “Who am I?”.

Let’s assume when the Big Bang happened than everything of this macrocosm were all together, like a tennis ball. Since the entire space is a vacuum except the tennis ball, which is waiting for the snap of my finger, that implies the tiny sphere includes all but me. Apart from every law of physics if this can be done then do I own everything or am I all alone? And for both circumstances, my first question remains alive, “Who am I?”

Since my cranium isn’t tolerating to hear its favourite Dibash Pokhrel or not having any interest to meet with Eva Zu Beck even if she visits the nearest place to me. That means “I’m tired”. Indisputably, I’m exhausted. But not done with the first two words, though. Who is that “I am”? I might have some WH questions for him, but do I want to know them?