The years come and go. Writing to save a lost soul, it fades then comes back again. Words not to pass the time, but to give time meaning. This isn’t just some hobby. Reflection not a curiosity, but a way of life. Others occupy themselves with their riddles of relationships and jobs. They give their attention to thankless tasks. Repetition. Safety. The comfort of being numb. None of this is good to me. It doesn’t taste of anything at all. No brothers or sisters. No money, only visions and imagination. No kids. Not bound to another. Passing seasons a test of endurance. People watching in bars and downtown cafes. Intellect and insecurity. A balance of the automatic in between. The madness of blush response. The theory of love. The colour of emotion in a black and white world built on a system of binary codes. Freedom not in profession, but in the choices made that negate the need for bland occupation. Tired bodies. Scentless lovers full of all kinds of bunk joy. Beneath a landscape of everything, the need for superstition is absolute. I am become death. I am resolute as the rain pours down until three in the morning. Trees in the mist. The gaze of sacrificial lambs. Hold me, and never let go. Speak to me of sacrifices, of a journey to places known only in our dreams. Your kiss is the key. Despite logic, love will always prevail. It doesn’t make sense, but then again, no sense does. Kindred spirits. Superfluous needs. In a time of no goodbye, my will is yours and mine to concede. Like a butterfly. Like a flower thirsty for water in the desert of the real. You can blame the world, or you can take it on the chin. Memories interlinked with opaque idols. Slices of life false and true at the same time. Journal for the torn. Journal for the invisible ones.