It's about Hemingway

There is a word for every state in history, just like there is a word for every state a mind goes through in a human life.
We call them timeless moments when all they actually are... is short. I wish to stoop so low as to measure my happyness in the time I spent happy and not in the intensity of the emotions I experienced. The ring on my finger is black. I was asked if I was engaged. Should I be engaged to mourning? For I am not. No one has yet died, although daily someone dies.
I sit at my imaginary window and look out on a real street and see pedestrians fearing to cross the street, ashamed that they then might be accused of being suicidal.
I sit in front of my long awaited laptop that in no way fills me with joy. Electronical equipment is as pragmatic a gift to me as any bracelet. They serve the same purpose. Somehow helping me become...
There once was an American wife in a hotel. She was bored and looking out the window. It was storming. The rain fell against the statues of cold heroes, heroes that had fought in wars that had been alive with heat. The American wife saw a cat. The cat was drenched and she went out to save it, to save herself and the cat was gone.
How do you quench the emptyness inside yourself? Is there a way, a way to escape the ebulliance, the hackneyed everything? The American wife did not know, but yet, she was gifted with a cat.
The blood was sprewn all around the covers. Most of his skull had been destroyed. And he had wanted it like that. The gun that had killed his father, now he used to kill himself.