I'd like to spend my nights awake, reading poetry. Instead, I waste them weaving obsessive thougths, chasing chimairas and reluctant people. When they dare speak to me of love and devotion, I run away terrified.

The wounds have not yet healed. The past is lingering, like it always does. I miss even the illusion of certainty, the fragile clarity of desire. Deep inside, don't we all long for effortless communication, are we not all eager to share our fear and hope and existential sorrow?

The sad truth is we can never let go of our inhibitions unless we are granted the fantasy of immortality. Don't you ever wonder why?