Each lover has some theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:

Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.

Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.

The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,
Are always up to mischief, though, and take
The universe for granted as their own.

The elderly, like Proust, are always prone
To think of love as a subjective fake;
The more they love, the more they feel alone.

Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.

he watches Her because she is one of those people who demands attention
She is wild and bold and sarcastic
he sees, though he is blind to Her insensitivity

she stares at Another because He is one of those people who sits at the back beautifully
He is good and charming and kind to His mother
she sees, though she closes her eyes to His cowardliness

he longs after The Girl who is taken because She is one of those people dreamt of
She is polished and pure with a bright smile
he sees, though he is oblivious to Her vanity

21 years of age, haven't rose with the sun for more than a while now, stretch those aching bones and rise with the fresh warm breath of the morning air.

Twenty-second of June  two thousand and fourteen. Cultures dead, the whole world has become an immersion of postmodern irony and sensuality evaporates like tender droplets of the heavenly sky's tears, what's new?

Tender black coffee morning, velvet aromas of something that could only feel like home.  Getting up and getting ready to tap keyboards and snap fingers, always on the periphery of that feeling of eureka moment madness, all creative and hopeful, hungry and *****.

Friends and foes accepting fates, watching the dreamy eyes glimmer and dissipate before me, killing me with sadness. It's a lonely world and the machines comforting kiss of conformity is all too tempting, to some at least.

The hours of the day, slip by. Procrastination greeting me, I don't feel like writing today. Slide into comfort and let it beat you around the back the head with its big pillow hands of complacency. You know you're not the only one and hey you're not doing as bad as that one guy you know.

evening, I have something in my pocket that has my whole life inside. I have digital extensions of my being and I check them like a notification ******, searching through the complaints and opinions of all who talk so much and say nothing at all.

twenty two minutes past 10 in England, the night puts on his cape and his heart falls out, I look at you and feel everything. how many of you lonely dreamers all around the world are looking with me, living in your beautiful minds with all your beautiful dreams, all of us are alive together and the stars wink at us and the trees breathe with us and we're all electric with life, universal current oh boy won't you flow through me tonight.