Shredded bits of paper with torn stories, thy name is life.
The one bedrock of my certainty proved to be a waxy candle, burnt down. What do I hold on to now? My dreams wail a betrayal that I cannot articulate. But I have no one to blame but myself! Me the architect of morbid messes.
Transparency eludes me at this point and life is just another name for opaqueness. Sentences in the past tense, float in the breeze along with your name. If I could delineate every word into letters of wanting, perhaps it would all fall apart whilst trying to come together?
I spin tales of solitude and soliloquies abound at this moment. Music is a duet of solace and distress. All I need now is to dance this dance and when I come crashing down, I know there won't be any arms.
But I shall go on.