Nothing seems to make sense these days, and as I feel this sense at the tip of my tongue,
it becomes a mere figment of my own passionate imagination -
the intense, sensual encounter you experience, ever so perfectly, but never through physical means.
That's the price you pay for an imagination...
your mind paints everything a shade of gray;
you question yourself everyday
you wonder where the fuck you are going with your life
you fail to realize that the thing, staring right back at you, is an opportunity
or, a fallacy.
Not that I mind or anything, because chances are, Pocahontas, you worry more about the black and white than I ever will contemplate the gray.
I play this constant game of chance; a constant, unpredictable, game that may be seen as impractical, but satisfies the expansive hunger my beast of an imagination envelops.
So, continue attempting to kick some “sense” into my life, sweets.
This insane life I seem to lead will only expand into new horizons,
new cities, states, countries, worlds.
Nothing will ever make sense; everything will only be.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Hurry up, August.
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