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Dear Diary,

Lack of inspiration is the most terrifying thing a writer can experience in life. It is as if the devil himself has taken away all feelings, thoughts and imagination. The struggle against emptiness becomes a fight with the self. To win, one attempts to bring back brilliant ideas by reading slogans on advertisements, notes on discarded bus tickets and quotes on random business cards.

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

For an hour, we stood wedged inside the Polish Church on the Rennweg. The rotunda of the church was packed; people stood shoulder to shoulder listening to the priest, offering words of comfort during this time of mourning.

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

I woke up and turned on my laptop; might be a response to one of my job queries…

Dear Dairy,

I was somewhere between the two worlds, between familiarity and novelty, between the old, which I had to forget for a while, and the new I was about to explore. I was somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean on my way to the United States, for a nine-month stay.

Dear Diary,

“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away,” sang the Beatles in 1960s. This morning, almost half a decade later, I had the same feeling when my parents called me at 09:30 to make sure I was expecting them. In an hour? But how? Where? Vienna? Was it Friday already?

Dear Diary,

It was around 7 p.m. I was walking down the long corridor again, the one in Club Danube … leaving behind me the Vienna Dance Center, the fading sounds of Justin Timberlake’s “My Love” and a Friday afternoon full of mixed emotions.