Stories of the lost Khan

[Quill]

The Grocery Run That Wasn’t Meant to Be

It was one of those nights where you just hate the world. Not because something bad had happened, but precisely because nothing had. I went to the grocery store—not by choice, but because my fridge was mocking me. Empty, like my soul after too many drinks and not enough sleep.

I thought of steak. A juicy, bloody piece of meat that melts in your mouth and fools you into believing, for a brief moment, that life isn’t all that bad. But the universe has its own sense of humor.

I stood there, staring at the gleaming metal shutter, behind which my salvation lay buried: “Butcher counter closed.” It might as well have said, “Fate closed.” A few last customers scurried by with packs of ground beef, like survivors of an apocalypse who’d managed to salvage something from the wreckage.

I wasn’t ready to accept this. Steak may have been off the table, but seafood—Dorade, to be precise—was still in play. And if you’re in this city and you want fish, there’s only one place to go: the KaDeWe. They’ve got everything, I thought. Dorade, oysters, maybe even a little caviar for the soul, if necessary. So I hopped into a cab, determined to rise above the mediocrity, to claw my way out of the abyss with at least one decent meal.

KaDeWe: The temple of excess, where the wealthy prowl with their designer shopping bags like lions hunting gilded antelopes. The place where the fish still smells of the sea and not of the plastic it’s wrapped in. I got there, walked straight to the fish counter, a glimmer of hope.

“I’ll have a Dorade,” I said when it was finally my turn. My eyes drifted over the perfectly arranged fish, shiny and fresh, as if they’d been swimming in the ocean just this morning.

The guy behind the counter looked at me like I’d just asked if I could take the Brandenburg Gate home with me. “No Dorade today.”

No Dorade? At the KaDeWe? Was this a joke? I half-expected hidden cameras to pop out, with someone handing me a lifetime supply of Dorade as a consolation prize. But no. Just the dry “Sorry, not today” and a pitying glance, like I was the poor guy who showed up too late to the party.

Dorade, my last bastion of hope, also shut down. No steak, no fish, no salvation. I stood there, in the middle of this temple of luxury, feeling like the only guy in the city who had forgotten how life was supposed to work.

And that’s when I saw her. Well, them. Two women, standing by the display of caviar, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world. They were all legs and sharp smiles, the kind of women you only see in movies.

One of them caught my eye. She tilted her head just slightly, like she’d seen men like me before—men standing alone in fancy grocery stores with nothing to buy and nothing to lose. Her friend whispered something in her ear, and they both laughed again, a sound that could’ve melted the ice under the Alaskan King Crab on display.

I should’ve walked away. I knew that. But it’s hard to walk away from a moment when the world finally throws you a bone.

I didn’t get my steak. I didn’t get my fish. But as I walked toward them, I figured maybe the night wasn’t a total loss after all. Sometimes life doesn’t give you what you came for, but if you’re lucky, it’ll give you something else to make you forget what you were looking for in the first place.

[Quill]

Too early

Monday morning. The sun hasn’t even had the chance to remind me just how miserable the day could be, and I’m already lying awake, with the comforting knowledge that in less than two hours, I’ll be completely exposed. Med student. Internship. General practice. The kind of dreadful combination that feels like being naked in public. I’m a fraud, no question about it. Not sure how I even got here, but it’s like I’m waiting to be found out. And honestly? Maybe I should be.

Still. I get dressed, take a deep breath as if that’s going to change anything, and head out. Too early, of course, because the fear of being late is somehow worse than the fear of looking completely incompetent. This should be interesting.

The practice is a small, forgettable building in a neighborhood so boring that I half-expect it was built that way on purpose. I walk in and… no one’s there. No doctors, no patients. Just the secretary. Young, cheerful, maybe a little too perfect for a Monday morning. She greets me with a smile that could’ve come straight from some kind of customer service manual.

“So, you’re the new intern?” she asks, like I actually know what I’m doing.

I nod, nerves simmering under my skin. Words aren’t really an option right now. I sit down and try not to look like a total idiot. Easier said than done when you feel like you’re seconds away from making a fool of yourself.

“You’re early,” she says, glancing at the clock like I’ve committed a crime. “The doctor won’t be in for another half hour.”

The air feels heavier. Or maybe I’m just imagining that? Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me. Her eyes linger a second too long, like there’s something unspoken, like she knows more than she’s letting on. I’m trying not to seem nervous, but my hands are betraying me. They’re shaking slightly as I attempt to steer the conversation into something safe, something that makes me seem remotely like I belong here.

“You seem a little tense,” she says finally, with a smile that… well, it’s different. Not the professional smile from before. There’s something else behind it, something deeper. Something more intimate than you’d expect in a sterile office on a Monday morning. “Relax. It’s just an internship. Nothing to be nervous about.”

“Easier said than done,” I mutter, a little too honestly, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

She steps closer, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One step. Then another. And suddenly, she’s standing close enough that I can smell her perfume more strongly. Warm, with a hint of vanilla and something I can’t quite place. Her fingers brush lightly against my arm, and this strange, electric sensation spreads under my skin. Something between nervousness and… something else.

“You really are early,” she says softly, her voice lower now, almost a whisper. “And you know, the doctor… he won’t be here for a while.”

The words hang in the air, and before I can even process whether this is really happening, her hand is on my shoulder. Light, but firm enough that I feel it. My thoughts, which had been a chaotic mess of self-doubt and half-remembered medical facts, begin to dissolve into fog.

And then there’s that moment. That small, dangerous moment where I don’t say anything. I just look at her. She looks back, and I lean in slightly, just enough to get closer but not too much in case I’ve completely misread this situation. But I haven’t.

She reacts immediately. Her lips are warm, soft, and for a second, I forget who I am. Just a guy in a room where none of this should be happening. But it is. Her hands slide over my neck, pulling me in, and everything that’s been bottled up inside me – the stress, the pressure – it all just blows up in this one moment.

I can feel her pressing against me, her breath quickening, and I’m not thinking anymore. No thoughts, no doubts, no fear. Just this. Everything feels easy. Simple. Wrong, sure, but somehow also incredibly right.

And then – right in the middle of that electric silence – I hear it. A sound. The door. It opens.

Reality hits me like a cold slap. I pull back, turn around, and there he is. The doctor. Standing there with a look that’s hard to read. His eyes sweep across the scene, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest. This is it. The end. I’m dead. My med school career? Over. My life? Over. They’re going to kick me out.

[Quill]

The Man and the TV

It’s almost ironic. The same guy who used to tell me to go out, live a little, now spends all day parked in front of that damn TV, eyes glued to the flickering screen like it holds the answers to life’s mysteries. My dad—the guy who taught me how to grab life by the balls, always with a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other, like that was his personal calling.

First came the heart attack, then the strokes—he’s survived them all. It’s like Death keeps showing up, hand extended, and every time he just grins and says, “Not today, pal. Not today.”

His brain’s fried—well, half of it at least. But he’s still in there, somehow. Sometimes he’s sharp, like he knows exactly what’s going on around him. And then, in the blink of an eye, you realize he’s not. It’s like someone slammed the door to his own mind shut, and now he’s locked outside, no key in sight.

And now he’s lying there, the old lion, in this sterile room, in some godforsaken rehab center. What’s he doing? Watching TV. For hours. Non-stop. Day after day. The old him would’ve scoffed at this scene, maybe even lit another cigarette in disgust, but now? Now, it’s like he’s given up. Like there’s nothing left to fight for.

And you know what? I can’t even blame him. He’s just lying there, waiting for the credits of his own life to slowly roll across the screen. No heroic ending. No dramatic final scene. Just the familiar sound of commercials fighting over our attention.

And then it hits me. I’m sitting here too. Not in front of a TV, but with my phone, scrolling mindlessly through nonsense the second I’ve got a free moment. I’m distracting myself, just like he’s doing now. And I start wondering: Is this how I’m going to end up? Just sitting there one day, no will left to fight? If I keep this up, maybe sooner than I think.

But that’s the point, isn’t it? You don’t see it coming. You think you’ve got all the time in the world to turn things around. But the truth is, the credits are already rolling.

[Quill]

the lobster

It was one of those nights where you feel like an unpaid extra in a life that definitely isn’t yours. You sit in some fancy-ass restaurant that eats up most of your paycheck, just to remind you that you don’t belong. The kind of place where the wine costs more than your last electric bill and the women look like they were bred in art galleries.

And there I was, sitting under a chandelier that probably once belonged to a Russian oligarch, surrounded by crystal glasses and plates that cost more than my car. The waiter – let’s call him François, because of course his name would be something ridiculous like that – presents the main course: lobster. Or langouste, as they’d probably say here, because everything sounds more expensive in French. He set the plate down with this look of quiet pride, the kind you get from people who spend their days serving rich folks too afraid to admit they have no idea what they’re actually eating.

So I stared at it. This big, red, overhyped sea creature, glaring at me with those lifeless eyes. Yeah, it was dead, obviously, but somehow it had more life left in it than I did. I took a bite, and right away, I knew – dry. Not just dry – we’re talking desert-dry, “you’ll need a gallon of water to get this down” dry. Every bite felt like the culinary equivalent of a failed marriage – tough, painful, and leaving a bitter aftertaste of disappointment.

And what did I do? Absolutely nothing. I could’ve called François over, could’ve told him the lobster was a disaster, but no. Instead, I just sat there, eyes glued to the plate, pretending this sad, flavorless lobster was suddenly the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen. No words, just the scrape of my knife on overpriced porcelain.

Why? Because I didn’t have the guts, that’s why. Because it’s easier to just keep your head down and suffer through it than it is to speak up and make a scene. Easier to drown in politeness than stand up for yourself. Just like the rest of life, right? We swallow the dry, the tough, the bitter, because we’re afraid that pointing it out would be worse. We’re scared of making people uncomfortable, so we spend way too much time staring at the damn table instead of looking people in the eye when they let us down.

[Quill]

Move or Die

Most people waste their lives waiting. Waiting for motivation, waiting for the right time, waiting for something outside of themselves to make things click. But nothing clicks. Nothing moves unless you move.

Movement is life’s secret sauce. The ultimate elixir. Without it, you stagnate, you rot, you become a spectator in your own story. A body that doesn’t move falls apart. A life without action? That’s just a slow, pathetic death.

And here’s where most people fail: You don’t rise to the level of your goals. You fall to the level of your routine.

You need a plan, and you need to execute it. Every. Single. Time. Not just when you feel like it. Not just when it’s convenient. No excuses, no bullshit. A plan is a promise to yourself, a contract that says, I will not betray my own potential. And yet, most people break that promise daily. They procrastinate, they delay, they choose comfort over progress.

Real satisfaction only comes when you handle the fundamentals first. When you stop wasting time. When you move fast, without hesitation, without second-guessing. That’s the only way you create space for anything greater—whether it’s success, love, creativity, or whatever the hell else you’re chasing. Manifestation? That only works if you’ve built the damn foundation first. You can’t wish your way into a better life; you have to earn it, one step at a time.

This also isn’t about some cute little morning routine with journaling and matcha tea. This is about an entire day structured for momentum. A rhythm so locked in that hesitation does not even get a chance to creep in. The body moves, the mind works, the plan gets executed. No thinking, no debating, no wasted time. Just movement, action, results.

Look at my grandfather. 95 years old, and still sharper, stronger, and more alive than guys half his age. Not because of good luck, not because of magic genes, but because he has been doing the same thing, every single day, for decades. He wakes up and follows a plan. No thinking, no negotiating, no wondering what he feels like doing. He just executes. One task after the other. Step by step, until the day is complete. And then he does it again tomorrow. That’s what keeps us young.

Move. Execute. Repeat. That’s the game. That’s the key. And if you don’t get that? Well, then you’re just another passenger in someone else’s story. And that, my friend, is a fucking tragedy.

[Quill]

Move or Die – part 2

There’s this guy I know—let’s call him Dave. And Dave, well… Dave is the guy who talks a lot. The guy who’s always about to do something. “I’m gonna start hitting the gym.” “I should really finish that book I started.” “I need to get back out there, man.” But somehow, it never happens. Instead, Dave just waits. For motivation, for inspiration, for the perfect moment.

So one night, we’re at this bar in Venice. The kind of place where the lighting is just dim enough to make bad decisions feel like good ones. The air is thick with that lazy, coastal warmth, and every woman in the room looks like she was sculpted by some perverted Greek god. And there she is—her. Long legs, dark eyes, that smirk that tells you she already knows exactly how this night could go. She gives Dave the look. The universal invitation. The green light from the universe itself.

And what does Dave do? Nothing. He hesitates. He overthinks. He sips his drink like it’s got the answers at the bottom of the glass. “I don’t know, man. Maybe I should wait for her to come over?”

And just like that, she’s gone. Some other guy—one who moves—sits down next to her. And Dave? He’s still at the bar, still waiting.

You see, life isn’t about waiting for opportunities. It’s about creating them. You don’t get the girl, the job, the dream—you move towards them. You show up. You execute. And if you don’t? Someone else will.

Now let me tell you about another night.

Same bar, same warm air, same chance to make something happen. But this time, Dave isn’t there. Not because he had plans, not because he had something better going on. No, Dave didn’t make it out because he was still at home, stuck in his own bullshit.

“Man, I was gonna come, but my apartment’s a mess. I had a bunch of stuff to do today, and I just never got around to it. And now, I don’t know, I just don’t feel like going out.”

That’s Dave. The guy with the to-do list that never gets done. The guy who’s always just a few unchecked boxes away from actually living his life.

But the real problem isn’t that he didn’t make it out that night. It’s that he doesn’t have a routine. He doesn’t have a structure that runs like clockwork, so when the night comes, he’s already ready. If he had a real routine—something locked in, something he executed daily, without fail—his apartment would already be clean, his work already done, his life already in motion. He wouldn’t be at home buried in unfinished tasks, because the fundamentals would be handled.

And that’s the real difference. The guys who win? They don’t scramble at the last second. They don’t let life pile up on them until they’re drowning in it. They build a routine, they lock it in, and they stick to it. Not just in the morning, not just when they feel like it, but all day, every day. That’s what creates freedom. That’s what creates space for the big things—the things that actually matter.

People think manifestation is about dreaming shit into existence. It’s not. It’s about executing on the smallest things first, so the big things can happen. You don’t get to the bar, to the girl, to the life you want if you’re still stuck on step one, buried under your own laziness.

So here’s the choice: You either build the routine, or you let life control you. You handle the fundamentals, or you stay stuck.

Move. Execute. Repeat.

That’s the game. And if you don’t get that? Well, then you’re just another Dave. And nobody wants to be a fucking Dave.

[Spartan]

@Quill

People think manifestation is about dreaming shit into existence. It’s not. It’s about executing on the smallest things first, so the big things can happen.

Nope hehe

[Quill]

Four Hours in Hell on Rails

So there I was. Four hours. On a oxygen-deprived confines of a train carriage. Trapped next to a couple who approached dessert the way a death row inmate approaches his last meal—like it was the final frontier of pleasure. Tiramisu. Chocolate lava cake. Something drowned in caramel. Spoon after spoon, bite after bite, their eyes locked in some grotesque, sugar-fueled romance. I kept waiting for them to start smearing whipped cream on each other and go at it right there on the fold-out table, but instead—McDonald’s. A full meal for each of them. Double burgers, extra-large fries, and sodas so big they could legally be considered bathtubs.

Now, I’m no stranger to bad decisions, but this was a commitment to self-destruction on a level that made Bukowski look like a yogi. The guy—built like a bloated piñata, greasy fingers shining under the flickering fluorescent lights—sat there without socks. Bare feet. In public transportation. As if the unwritten laws of human decency simply did not apply to him. And then he got up. And walked. Barefoot. Down the aisle.

I could feel the bacterial ecosystem of that train floor screaming in delight as they found a new host. It was repulsive. It was existential. It was exactly what I needed.

Because here’s the thing: I’ve been in a slump. The kind where you start accepting your own mediocrity like a bad roommate you’ll never get rid of. But watching this? Watching two people let themselves go with such unshakable commitment, watching a man treat public flooring like his personal yoga mat? That was the slap in the face I needed.

I stood up, stretched, inhaled deeply, and made a vow: never. Never will I let myself slip into the abyss of foot stench and blind consumption. And if I ever do, I’ll think back to this moment. The smell of sweat, salt, and surrender.

I’ll keep walking.
With my goddamn socks on.

[Quill]

The Matrix

You know, the problem with smartphones isn’t that we use them—it’s that they use us. It’s not just a tool we pull out of our pocket to navigate the world. It’s more like an IV drip feeding our dopamine receptors, a dealer that never sleeps.

We pick it up to answer a message, and an hour later, we’re still there, scrolling through the lives of people we don’t actually care about. We wanted to read a book, take a walk, work on our dreams. Instead, we’re trapped somewhere between TikTok and Instagram, numbed by an endless stream of distractions that feel like activity but leave nothing behind except a vague sense of dissatisfaction.

It’s not much different from The Matrix. In the movie, people live in a simulation, their bodies hooked up to machines, convinced they’re making real choices while their energy is drained to power something else. Sound familiar? We’re not in pods, but we might as well be. We sink into our screens, feeding the system. Advertising, algorithms, engagement rates. Our attention is the currency —thinking we’re in control, when really, we’re just keeping the engine running. Nobody forces us. There’s no evil AI pulling the strings. We do it ourselves. Willingly. Because it’s easier. Because the illusion is comfortable. And like in the movie, the scariest part isn’t that we’re trapped. It’s that we don’t even want to leave.

[Quill]

The Illusion

I sit in a coffee shop. The espresso machine hisses, the air is thick with the scent of burnt beans and ambition.

She walks in, and the atmosphere shifts. Not because she does anything, not because she demands attention, but because men don’t know how to exist in a world where a woman can just be.

My eyes drift to the barista. His body betrays him before he even realizes it—a quick, darting glance, his gaze sliding down to the slit in her skirt, desperate for a glimpse of something that was never his to claim.

Instead, I watch him drowning in his own illusion—something stitched together from loneliness, lust, and failure. A fantasy built from pornographic daydreams, high school rejections, and the quiet terror of his own ego.

To him, she isn’t a woman anymore; she’s a stage, and he is the lead actor in a play only he is watching.

And the worst part?

He isn’t just imagining her—he’s using her. Twisting her presence into proof that he is still something, still a man who could, if he wanted, reach out and take.

But he won’t. He never will.

Because if he did, if he dared to meet her gaze, the whole fragile construct would collapse. She’d cease to be a projection, and he’d have to confront something far more terrifying than his lust —his false sense of self.

So he keeps his head down, slides the coffee across the counter, mumbles something about oat milk.

And she? She walks away.

Leaving him alone quietly haunted by the uncomfortable suspicion that this isn’t the only place, the only time, he’s constructed fantasies to avoid confronting who he really is.

[Quill]

Another try

I sit there, glass of wine in front of me, half-empty, half-full—whatever. The conversation moves fast, bouncing around like a pinball, impossible to track completely. Polish. All Polish. I get most of it, at least enough to follow along, but speaking? That’s a different story. I just… can’t. The words aren’t there. It’s not fear, not nerves, not some existential crisis about sounding stupid. I just literally don’t have the ability. Understanding is easier. Speaking feels like trying to build a house with no tools.

Still, I could be part of this. Somehow.

I lean back, sip my wine. The words wash over me. I nod at the right moments, chuckle when it makes sense. But I’m not really in this. I’m just watching. A spectator at my own goddamn dinner table.

And that’s bullshit.

There’s a way in. There has to be. Language is just a bridge, right? It doesn’t have to be perfect. I could just—what? Throw in a few English words? Say something, anything, in broken fragments, mixed with what little Polish I do know? People make it work all the time.

I look up, open my mouth—

And someone else speaks first.

I close it again. Another sip.

Another try.

[Quill]

There is nothing noble in being superior to some other man. True nobility is being superior to your previous self. ~ Seneca

We are all on the same plying field

[Quill]

Hi guys! It‘s me, Q.
Back with a new journal entry

The joke

You know what the problem is with this whole circus? Love, friendship, dinner parties, crowded bars, all that pathetic small talk? It’s all just a desperate distraction. A tragicomic little theater production we put on so we don’t have to face the one, ugly, undeniable truth: In the end, we’re alone. Always.

We come into this world alone, clutching at the warm hands of people who will eventually disappear. We fall in love, move in together, weave our lives into someone else’s, only to end up—sooner or later—sitting in an empty room, the scent of another person just a ghost in the sheets, the echo of laughter trapped in the walls. My mother lost her husband. My friends lost their relationships. And me? I’ve lost more people than I can count.

So we drink. We smoke. We laugh too loudly and fuck even louder, because silence is the real enemy. And yet… when the night drags on and the alcohol stops working, there’s only one truth left standing, the one we all fight like hell to ignore: We are born alone, we die alone, and everything in between is just a fragile house of cards we build with shaking hands, waiting for the wind to knock it all down.

But you know what? Maybe that’s the joke. Maybe the point isn’t to keep the house of cards standing forever. Maybe the point is to build it anyway. With every person we love, with every stupid hug, with every desperate little “Just stay a little longer.” Maybe that’s the trick—to know it’s all pointless and do it anyway.

[Quill]

The most important text

Subliminals are like slipping into a club you’re not sure you belong in. At first, everything’s smooth. The bouncer waves you through, the music’s just right, and the drinks hit like a promise you actually believe in. You’ve got your goals, your vision, the whole damn script playing out in your head. The sales copy whispers in your ear—you’re gonna be richer, sharper, the kind of guy people notice when he walks in—and for a while, it’s all clicking.

And then, before you even realize it, Reconciliation slides in.

Not loud, not obvious. Just subtle shifts, little cracks in the new you. The way you reach for your phone out of habit, kill time scrolling when you should be making moves. The way you hesitate before saying what’s on your mind, default back to playing it safe. The gym session you suddenly don’t feel like hitting. The automatic, old reflexes kicking in before you even have time to think.

Your brain is tying to keep things familiar. The same way an ex texts you at 2 AM, not because she wants you, but because she’s drunk and you’re easy. And if you’re not paying attention, you slip. You start acting like the guy you used to be, the guy you’re trying to leave behind. Not because you decided to, but because you didn’t catch it in time.

So what do you do?

You notice. You fight it. Don’t overanalyze it, don’t throw a pity party about how hard change is. You just clock it for what it is—a last-ditch effort from the old you to pull you back in. And instead of taking the bait, you stay locked in. You stick to the script. You double down. Because if you push through the reconciliation, if you refuse to let the doubt win—then guess what?

You win

[Quill]

The Mindset

You know what the most important thing in life is? The mindset. Not just any mindset. No, no, no. The one mindset that actually gets you somewhere.

Always make the best move based on the board in front of you.

That’s it. That’s the whole game.

Because life is a game. A messy, unpredictable, often unfair game where the pieces aren’t always where you’d like them to be. But you don’t get to wish for a different board. You don’t get to sit there, staring at the pieces, waiting for them to magically rearrange themselves into something more convenient. You play the hand you’re dealt, you make the move that makes sense now, and then you deal with whatever comes next.

That’s the difference between people who actually get somewhere and the ones who spend their whole lives in neutral, revving the engine but never shifting gears. You get tired, you get lazy, you get distracted by a million little excuses whispering sweet nothings in your ear—“just one more episode,” “I’ll start tomorrow,” “does it even matter?” Yeah, it does. It always does.

In those moments, you have two choices: give in, or make the move that gets you closer to where you want to be. The right move. The best move, based on the board you’re looking at right now.

That’s it. That’s the secret. Life’s a long, complicated game of chess, and the people who win aren’t the ones who fantasize about the perfect setup—they’re the ones who play the damn game, one move at a time.