Alexander Hicks spent his childhood in a small town dreaming not of the big wide world, but of playing the piano. After years of thinking how such desire would eventually come about, one day, having read a newspaper account of a chess match, a game he was not familiar in the least, he sat upon his desk and started writing a diary, first entry of which he titled "I can’t play the piano. And the same is with chess".
Growing up, the list of things he wasn’t capable of kept gaining new entries, but so did his back room filled with scribbled pages. By the time he reached adolescence, though reserved in participation, he developed interest towards human behavior, an attraction he holds still and which prompted him to forward his efforts towards getting the better understanding of it.
Undergoing studies he kept himself sparse of free time by devoting attention to literature and cinema, amid which he grew to appreciate the works of Kafka and Dostoevsky; Kieślowski and Lynch; among others, embracing the principle of thought as one bearing the strongest pull over him.
Allegedly, he often recalls cheerful memories of keeping a childhood diary, acknowledging that though the terrible list keeps growing, he never ceases attempts at slowing its progress.
To this day he hasn’t learned to play the piano.
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by Alexander Hicks
A man obsessed with his work, tormented by inability to produce it and imprisoned with devotion to the cause of his madness. Struggling with anxiety, he shares a lodging with a painter, a free-spirited woman, who could just be his ruin. Burdened with perpetual observations, one thing surfaces as inevitable - he is compelled to ceaselessly think, awaiting for the end of his life work, or his own.
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