I've been trying to start a short story for the whole evening. From 5pm I'm thinking and thinking, and nothing, absolutely nothing comes out.
I'm too confused with love, that bitchy angel. Becquer was right when he said "cuando siento no escribo" (when I feel, I do not write)
So either you feel or you write. There's no way out. I shall forget you if I want that short story.
But you can also listen to Glen Gould playing Hadyn's piano sonata in E-flat, and think that life is worth living. Just for that, after your kiss, after your eyes.