I was a lover, before this war.

A popular (with me) refrain cycles through my grey matter, in between my ears and eyes and intentions. I didn’t write it, but, then, we aren’t really fighting yet, are we?

Suddenly alone, my personality begs a closer look. It struggles for attention, for a breath of feeling better; for equality. ‘Where is the love song, the saddest phrase… everything turning, the wrong way ‘round’. Damon Albarn has already written to me about this feeling. But here, here is this and me within it. It is so much so that I can’t help but know the thing itself is un-quantifiable. It is quantum, and singular and every bit an extremely personal black fucking hole.

It happens to other people, this inescapable force of nature. Even as I watched it head for the space in between my eyes, I could not move out of its path. Every strike is a different symphony of anguish, a peculiar composition of fury.

If I were typing any slower just now, I am sure I would be Terry Jones typing backward, nude, in a mid-years Monty Python sketch. It is true then, that this level of misery borders on hilarity as I dawdle along the dotted line between the two.

The sun rises outside, just escaping my vision. Everything, all the time, is out of my reach; away, away and away.


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