Surrounded by the necessary tools:
A screen, a keyboard to write down my lines
And knowing that from now on grammar rules
I pass the hours in a sort of trance.
It is the daily dance, the bleak routine,
In which us writing fools think lies our fate,
We must create an interesting terrene;
The rest of life is only there to wait.
Surrounded by a screen and knowing I
Must pass the hours in a sort of trance,
I dance and lie my fate in bleak routine.