You know what?

Heck those damned ********

I don't even know what they are to start with.

But yes, blast them all out.
This place is not one of the weepers.

That elegance is eating onto me.

She went, go write.

"About what?" I questioned back.

Write about love. You never do that.

"I did, I wrote about love."

Write about love again.

"You know I hardly can."

Yes you can, write about love.

--
Funny how she wants me to write about love. I never knew love with a man. I only knew love with my family, friends - I suppose. It is only right that I should know about familial love in the first place.


"Dear first love.
That's why don't blame me if I don't know how to love you,
I never knew how to love a man before."

I don't like the air here.

It scares me a whole lot.

But I love her still, really

And I am glad she is no one else's but mine.

But now, I want her for something else.

I no longer fear now.
For I have grown stronger in a Name.
And I want to share it with her.

But I still love her grim in writing.
I will have her to keept that dearly still.

But I want her smile all over again.
And I am sure she already knows that Name, I know it only too well.

Thank you so much, really.
And for that, I shall sing to you, my Lover, a Preface of your writings.

You will come back, I know it only too well.

She is starting to fear, I know it only too well.
But she tries to convince herself that her Good Ol' Daddy is always with her.

But inside, she knows that there is something not right.
As if she were being false to herself.

I need to change myself, in order to help her now.
I need to be hers.

You will be able to, I know it only too well.

I think she is.
I think she really is, honestly.

Trying to act as foolish as though she hath known nothing of the episode.

But trying to lie ain't her dressing, she lacks restraint on appearing happy when she truely is.
All that fluster and blushing.
All that poetic gobbledygook.

All that denying and ignorance.

All that to think that she would have even thought that could ever have me shut from mentioning it again.

She makes me laugh a lot, really.
But that is not disdainful at all.
She is still a child.

"The love that dares not speak its name"

Charles Gill mentioned it.
Not very applicable to I though.

I think should stop thinking.
I am jealous, somehow I am.

But I suppose I know why now -- though very vague but still passable.

I will work on it.

I think I really am.
Really.

But I prefer mystery novels to it still, as usual.

I'll see you on the morrow.

I remember now, I was here for love.

I think I have fallen for someone, althought there was an episode that made me lose one very dear but unspeakable love.

Perhaps it was a good thing I lost it.
But I am still upset about it, and how it lost it's way to me.

Nonetheless, instrumental pieces help me think better, much.
How should I put it -- I love reading mystery novels more to studying my lecture notes.
Now that's something to worry about.

Perhaps I should forget about genders. And I should forget about sensual, complicated relationships.
Platonic would be ideal.

I think that one was platonic, it was a presence that I felt.

I like it here, where no one reads nor know it.

A. must be furious now.

I like this , really.

And who would have ever thought what all this was for.
Bless me.

I am still writing, and still as disrespectful to time.
It is a habit, and not a very good one but nonetheless beneficial to us -- one way or another.

Time is running short. She doen't speak as every now and then.
Perhaps, -- no, I shalt not speak of it.
The mere mention of it would have us thrown into a dislikeful episode.

I am really lost in thoughts. Everything is all messed up, like accumulated wires, badly organised.

I said something really wonderful this morning.
I promised myself that I'll remember to write it down.

A. must have heard it too, but none of us remember what it was now.

But it slipped off my mind.

Was it something about the rain?
Or was it something to do with dawn?

It was something I could live believing in, now I have upset myself with forgetfulness.

I am now really pondering on it.

She really is a child.

She thought that she might just lose me well and good, just by that.

But little did she know that it doesn't work that way, her behaviour was really adorable.

She was clenching her hands together, as if holding onto my clothes, she was scared that I might just go off like that.
She did grief but only for while.

And do please grief for not more than a day.
When you do so, take off your coat and hat and head to bed.
Wake up the next day and start to write down everything that comes to your mind.
Seal it in an envelope and address it to, "The I, of Yesterdays", who is just living a fews streets from home.

It made me what to recite the story of Le Petit Prince to her till she falls asleep on my lap. As if it was to remind her that she herself was as childlike as the Little Prince.

She would make sarcastic comments, and I would mocked her like an older brother.
And at the end of the day, we would laugh it off together.

We know about the Drawing Number One and the Drawing Number Two.

And as we continue to write, I pray that she may find that love again.
Amen to that.

I accompanied Stacey through our Getaway.
Thank God she let me off on my own.

I travelled more or less solely.

It is meant to be a Getaway anyway.

We wrote Letters to A. together along as we travelled.
Met a whole new world that we did not belong to, but that feeling of unfamiliarity was upmost charming.

Love can be found in between spaces, and we found it.

I'll tell you more again later.

Eu sou pesaroso, deixei-me pedir este espaço por um quando.
Obrigado.

I think this is it.
I don't feel like it anymore.
Whatever I have now, may I so foolishly and selfishly charge you to take it all back.
Words are vicious, they may materialise even quicker than a blink.

And I would never want that to happen, but yet, I have asked you to do so.
Perhaps this is Man, naked and meek.
Uncertain and dwelling in stupidity.
Perhaps this is what suicide really is for.

Death, is so slient and innocent.
What taints it is not the lifes that it takes, but the lifes that came so freely to it.

Spare Death the agony, the blame always rested on its reaper.

Please, just have me alone here now.
Over, it must be.

We'll be leaving soon.
Hel will never allow our intrusion, nor will Hlín give us her condolence.
We are not blessed souls.
Loki must be sniggering at the foot of Yggdrasill, in his hands a blade stained with the blood of Skuld.
And that ceases our future.

I think I have just fallen out of love.


Although I may speak of them so strongly, I know I lied.