two pairs of clothes that didn’t match under any combination and some fancy curtains that were there when I moved in. This is how my dust collects. She stole my heart that used to cherish what was pure and worthy.
I stick to fiction books in these days. They never really demand any attention to detail, just as long as the imagination is taken on the correct path toward a vague message. Stories used to be so simple, so to the point and meaningful. Now its just guessing at which word is not the shorter straw. True, there is a various collection of principles and vitalities, but what truly seems to reach vulnerable distances is the past, dust covered and weary, the past lights our mistakes. If only we were to listen to the whispers coming from the trees. Its not supposed to be this way! Nothing we are doing makes any sense as far as reasonable scholars can tell but we press forward, shoulders to the northbound wind, trying to find a way through the fog that constantly covers our imagination with its disembodied hands. We fight and follow and lead and love but we seem to be making the opposite effects on our future. Without a guideline or optimistic chemical warfare, what can we hope to press toward?
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