Spanish music pours in my spring window, just became dark. In and out, reeling. My senses calculating data in such peculiar ways. I love it and hate it all simultaneously. All the contrived notions, all the pretense and vanity, personas gotta load on and talkin that **** again, the children got lost, got old and believed again. If i didn't laugh id probably just cry. Its just a flaw in the design, to never be satified, no peace of mind. To seek forever without knowing the question, fielding through the minutia If I said I love you, most of that isnt true.