the words rot yet we all still sing making them know something that perhaps
we have lost.
We write because we need to, we write and continue with our prose and poetry, our spirit and our soul
all we know, all of us that no one has even the slightest hint of.
Our own personal tragedy, folded down inside and only the taste for those we think we might love… for a moment.
I dream, I love, I remember everything.
I noticed a woman once.
I fell, and keep falling for all of them.