Magical number eight. I feel uninspired. tired. bored. eight. even. divisible. u² = n x 8 + 1. Everything goes fine and I know everything will go fine. Life is hard when people make it hard. Eight paradises. Seven hells. Interesting. I don't worry. At least not more than during the time in that I hope for something. I think it's important to mentally go the worst way, to mentally confront yourself with a fear, then to solve and fight it. I don't see a reason for bothering with something unpleasant furthermore. When something bad happens, then it happens, no matter if you've worried or not. And to involve my somewhat buddhistic view of life into it: you probably also deserved it. People hate to hear that and I think it's because they feel more comfortable in their role as a victim than in confrontation with self-responsibility. No, it's never your fault. I know I had that pessimist/optimist topic many times before but again and again I see how all those people saying "I'm pessimist/realist because I want to be prepared for the bad moments" are those people who are moaning and complaining and are unhappy. Seems like some plans don't work out here, eh? The question is also: Who's the realist? Sometimes I think I'm more of a realist than my dear drama queens. I'm anything but perfect, tho uninspired and tired. Eight past eleven. At least I can say I'm happy. Eight spokes in the wheel of fortune. At least I can say a pretty sundown and a dried cucumber on the wall can make my day. It started to rain again. Lovely sounds. Eight. The first cubic-number. Octonarius primus in numeris cubicis est, aeternae beatitudinis nobis in anima et corpore stabilitatem simul et soliditatem designans.