the inevitability of my own wet feet. each day molests me secretly. and this world i care nothing for. there is a fine line to live in. between where i am. and the world, but i can't seem to get there. the unimportance of myself. and the vastness too, which only escapes itself, becoming an unsurpassable aloofness. i often wonder why death won't take me now. not to sound so dramatic. but what has man to offer me. what does the earth give. i expect nothing from the world. and desperately try to amputate myself from it. but when that starts to work, i feel a failure. there is no place for me in this world.

it was half and quiet light through the kitchen window. and i sat basking in all the silence life had to offer, while straddling your lap. as we sat on a wooden chair, in our underclothes. the room sparse and dim with the oncoming morning. my head on your left shoulder. absorbing pleasantries, and dark hair. and thoughts of absolutely nothing.