Some impasse this turned out to be. Between cold, dead words and warm life there’s this little crack where I managed to get myself wedged into. There are no epiphanies here, only choice revelations of amoral overtones. And I have been no saint. No siree. You can rejoice now but only there’s this question of sleeping business and so forth and so on. You get me?
Ofcourse not, you’d say or I’d think you’d say but that’s not what we’re talking about. I thought I’d write you a poem, one of those Neruda-esque heart warmers, beat skippers, mill of the run types. But that’s all been done and said and whispered in ears too many with little results and much ‘too many’ dismay and sorrow. We perform our way through life not knowing we’re on stage, not realising that we’ve created scenes that we have to probably stash away in the deleted scenes section of the blue ray disc edition. But YOU are no deleted scene, my love. You are the disc cover, if I could be straight with you here. With you around I know where I stand, centre of the universe, centre of you, centre life. You are shiny, new and quite the collector’s item and you’re all mine for now. Get me?
