All this abandonment, all these growing empty spaces, the gloom, the cold dinner, the love letters I will never receive, the broken headphone, the handwritten music sheets, the spilt wine, the petals pressed inside the book, the sealed shoeboxes, the poetry taped to the cupboard doors, the act of looking back on the sidewalk, the bittersweet sound of slow strings, the arrhythmic heart, the endless ten-way crossroads and their demonic traffic fireflies, the chocolate flowers, bad music and radio signals from hell. I am not well, I need to dream something nice tonight.
Dreams can be so goddamn unreliable.
Tomorrow is another day. Maybe tomorrow.
Bastards.
