Friday. Passion is just wishful thinking.
Something is keeping me from returning home. I have lots of pending readings but this day I simply do not function. I should be resting but instead the illumination of my incandescent thinking sets me down by a light pole in the cold, dark, young night. I keep myself visible. I fiercely want to be seen. I made lots of colorful pictures of myself. I believe to be hearing familiar sound, one voice in particular yet I see nobody and no one real approaches me.
As I begin to develop some of my remarkable procedures alone in the dark, I realize how physically ill I’ve been feeling for a while now. It’s strange because it is not relevant but at the same time I cannot tell how a mixture of physical and emotional phenomenon inflicts pain in a way beyond my control, which diminishes my will for it to end. For a moment, I stare. I wonder how a concert would sound.
I have not yet reached a verdict on holding of myself so my system faints. I am far, resembling the truths from my professor. Of the number of things I get to speak on, however, I am yet to identify where I tell the truth.
Touch me, I'm going to scream if you don't
Inside I have the feeling that you won't
I can tell by the way you smile, I'm smiling too
I can see myself in you
I can tell by the sounds you make, when you are pleased, you see yourself in me
How many nights can a soul so full of life remain untouched?
How could a soul make the most of what is whole and what is here?
I need a human right by my side, untied, untied
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