I don't know where I go in this grand stage. The sense of time becoming lost in a great fear. Injuries and complaints multiply in large doses. Broken thought patrols that control inside. Your concern makes me yearn for a kind of friendship. Even if nothing comes of it, it's the building blocks of a rehabilitation. Unqualified for nothing more than dust. The schemes of future dreams elude me at the best of times. And when there is nothing left, I want to see where it leaves me. Return back if there's anything left to salvage. Nothing left there but pride. An instrument in gliding through the secrets of the past. But pride disappeared a long time ago. If it can manage, I would enjoy the thought of being nothing else but the conversations we had two weeks ago. Your flights to London, Brisbane and Vancouver. I want to be a tourist in your thoughts and speech. I've this recurring feeling of care homes. Wheelchairs dreaming of another life. A tourist in your heart to numb...
The secret garden of despair.