“ I'll remember your apocalypse if you'll remember mineIt will be a holiday of the senses ”
He was a poet -oh all men are when they're in love.
~ Eric Gamalinda
I would like to write a suicide note in three and a halflanguagesand travel south on a Thursday towardssome form of life outside of earth
Fuck words, nothing spokencomprehends the defiantly ephemeral.I take my incompleteness with the rest, an exilein any language.
Forgetting: that, too, was the heart's slow way of healing, but it could only be done alone. Love and loss turns us into the most solitary of creatures, their mysteries can never entirely be shared.
