All so sick. Observing her through a pair of binoculars. Joy. Her madness fulfilling. My death cannot be undone, for a charade inflated with grandeur and revenge is not easily murdered. Unnecessary it is to mention what I feel for her. Oblivion. I was about to bring it all down, all because of a night of sex. Yet I have managed to survive. I could feel her once more. Tears rolling down. My fake mental love. The story of our reconciling has not been written. I wouldn't dare use 'yet.' She has been forgiven. Not by me inasmuch as I do not possess such gift. Unearthly. I did give it all to have her come. Twice. Even my own life. However, I was not killed. Undead. Alive. I inhabit her mind. She never minds her condition. I smile.
Elle est la lumière.
To Karol and Krysztof
Dragonflies slamming into the windshields of moving cars. O the bare expectation, foggy foresight and troublesome wing movement are nothing against the crashing speed of a suicidal vehicle which got nothing to lose inasmuch as, well, there ain't much you fear losing when you embrace velocity. If you could hear the splat of a hundred insects smashing into a stoppable force, you would indeterminably come to a piece of paper and jot down the dubious joy and the juxtaposing terrour. Do not blame the dragonflies for trying to unabashedly spot where to nest and give birth to music. Dare not simplistically vilify them: little could you tell were you opposing the devil's strength against your will.
White and yellow curves smudged against the pale background of a regular day, an a-gogo tremble bestowed by the warmth which matches the whole scenario, and the enthusiasm granted by a slice of existence. There is nothing which can barely be up to a moment like this, pure and spontaneous, liquid in essence and solid in thought. The eyes of a thousand beings come to be the eyes of the universe. The band of light bends to the beat of broken silence. The feel of the occurrence shrouds all around her. You should have been there for it was indeed a beautiful second.