A sibilant secret, So, when comes? If yes, or no. A twisted string leading nowhere, a labyrinth of doubt, a question mark hanging in the air. With, or, in, maybe none. Ify, unreal thing, a dream half-remembered, a melody fading, a ghost of a chance. So, when comes? If yes, or no. A twisted string leading nowhere, a labyrinth of doubt, a question mark hanging in the air. With, or, in, maybe none. Ify, unreal thing, a dream half-remembered, a melody fading, a ghost of a chance. Not to tell, is… incomplete, a sentence unfinished, a story untold, a longing unaddressed, a part of me, If is not the what it and what it isn't now to say is not into say and two say couldn't to day and for me too say is if you would like it to love it or is it love it to like it and that was not explained as a individual came to say and was not because I was not in correspondence of any information of tushay and to what was say ying I am not I. A unraveling thread, a knotted string of words tumbled out, a cascade of maybes and almosts. Not to tell, is… incomplete, a sentence unfinished, a story untold, a longing unaddressed, a part of me, If is not the what it and what it isn't now to say is not into say and two say couldn't to day and for me too say is if you would like it to love it or is it love it to like it and that was not explained as a individual came to say and was not because I was not in correspondence of any information of tushay and to what was say ying I am not I. A unraveling thread, a knotted string of words tumbled out, a cascade of maybes and almosts. a hiss of air escaping through a crack, whispered on the indifferent wind, a confirmation strange, unsettling in its lack of explanation, an affirmation found in the very refusal to make things clear. The guess remains a guess, the shape unresolved, and I, the unwilling guardian of the gap, stand mute within the fog I hoped this hate, this thing that clings, had found a higher form, a more complex shape. Because elsewhere, the general hum of being human has faded for me, a distant static. I learned the art of blankness regarding the breath and bustle of the crowd, the quick flicker of their daily joys and pains. It all seems so thin, like old paper. Except for you. You remain the sharp point, the anchor in this sea of indifference. Every twenty-four hours spins out another measure of your presence, a constant, undeniable fact. Three hundred and fifty-eight days a year, the cycle turns, and you are there. Why am I built this way, to keep this one negative focus so bright, while the rest of the world blurs? I watch the flow, the endless stream of what spills out of people, the constant, low-grade poison. It’s stress, they call it, a corrosive element baked into the air. It’s destructive, this heavy atmosphere we all breathe in. Brutal, the way small hurts pile up, the casual cruelty of misunderstanding. observe the effortlessly

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