Lost

"If self is a location, so is love" so says the poet. Well, I'm still here, selfless and loveless. Is there a meaning for such a bizzare, bottomless, blotched, bloating pad I impress single lines of despair? It's been a way overdule long time since we last talked, and yet you remain here with a promise of a destiny to be fulfilled and a candy to be devoured. I know that the big bother whose dream is to ransform Planet Earth into a huge mass of pollution is watching you every mood, every sound, every fidget who are so dazzling in the light of the day. By the way, those glasses look lovely tonight. Of course, when you are not wearing them. They make you look old and wise, when you are, in fact, young and wet behind the ears. Strike, yes, strike, while the iron is hot. But leave a little bit of vodka in the bottle so that I can finish up with them. Yes, I want to break your heart, yes, but that is so easy, I just need to pick up that stainless left floating on the first weaves of early morning and nail it in my bossom, cut it open, let it bleed until there is nothing left to hide, except for the fact you have hit the nail on the head, you have captured my soul when I thought that would be preactically impossible. Sure, I want some tea! Sure I want some water. Sure I want some fuck, but do you feel them? Can you hear my voice echoing in the depths of the ocean? My fire on the verge of ewxploding. Stop throwing a tantrum, stop making a pig's ear of it, stop clattering, stop with the platter, stop! Turn around now and kiss me and make me forget everything. Make me forget that I have to make choices and follow this loveless heart. Come on, now. Look back. It's nothing but an empty heart wating to be fulfilled.

This is for you my firend, whose words and wisom is sorely missed.