this will end. i am struck with a sickness of some kind. a bout of melancholia, if you please. she blurted out to me, i hate to look at your face right now, you’re so bald. you’re saying i’m ugly. i am not, it’s just, ah, i am not in the mood to engage in anything right now. it’s the weather. it’s the bloody rain. it’s the sweat. it’s the country.
it is not sadness that smothers us rather something of a peculiar nature, i am thoroughly still. nothing moves. there are no dancing stars to cause chaos. treating things as if they didn’t matter. i thought all of your sibling reads books. no, it’s just me, with the exception of my father. everyone else falls into normalcy.
he is silent. but in his silence he moves around the coast, batting his eyes here and there, make an exclamation without an exclamation mark, a mere monotonous announcement for anyone who cares enough to listen, his audience gone, he speaks to no one now, his words; everything is directed to the air, easily dispersed, yet they vanish within seconds.
yet i am always listening. only, i want to be your sole audience.
i am sorry. there is no spite, only bitterness.
perkaraperkara 