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Im a lonely piece of writing. Give me a name. Im a story of love. Show me some love. I am a romance

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I?m a lonely piece of writing. Give me a name. I?m a story of love. Show me some love. I am a romance: mero-mero-mero-- mellow. I?m a finite shard of uselessness, cut out from my mother?s bosom by crude hands; prematurely? much too soon. Give me an excuse. I stray from infinity?s circles into your palm. This attraction is too strong. Even Physics couldn?t smother me down. Give me a name. Your voice grants my life; so long as it rings I?m there; reading, listening; writing. Your breath cleanses me off all the rubbish: it is my shower of solace. ...read more.


Unaltered chords exist in every passion. To make them but quiver, our lives are spent. As such, we are instruments without a player, seeking a compatible person. Playing us means music. Music invokes change. The changed sense no longer wishes to return. To choose one state is to forsake another. What has life been for me until now? I can?t remember. Useless? but so am I. Embraced by a cold sheet of paper, I feel I?ve attained nothing nor yet lost anything to the railings of ink penetrating the canvas. Useless? but so is every other art. ...read more.


Reclining peacefully, the island of thought must have easily surrendered to the ?native?; features: eyes, nose, and lips: all betrothed to approbation. It?s meaningless to love. I can?t see you at all. That?s right? I wonder why. Maybe a savage hope latched itself unto me; maybe my eyes are just not the same? why? You were there. If I asked, would you have told me? But there?s no way I could ask, knowing it?s too late. Art is an excusable sin; a pardonable deportment. I commit to art. As a father sows manner into the slightest gestures of his children, I inherit my soul to this piece. Perhaps this will come to no avail, but so does everything in this world eventually wither and disappear. ...read more.

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