Sour and Plain.

We've got forever, slipping through our hands. We've got more time to never understand. The shortest distance between two points is the line from me to you. Feet turning black. Is this the path we must walk? No turning back. Wish, I could just hear you talk. I do not think, there is such a possibility to do so now, though. It has been, still remains so and, I estimate, will be a kind of a peculiar specialty of yours not to let slip through your mouth any unnecessary enunciation of a sound. At the times of your sober mind I could at least self-deceive myself into thinking that you might deign to dedicate some of your extraordinarily whimsical stream o'consciousness to thinking about me. On the last Sat, that you have made me familiar with the intention of yours, I have deprived myself of such illusions. Frankly speaking, I do not know what you want from me. Oh, pardon me, I kind of do suspect what that might actually be. There is quite a cargo of things which you want from me, living ensured that you deserve them, that I have to give them to you, the things which I have to wrap cutely in a package, you just take what you came for and then you are out the door again. You have an eye on what you are after, next step is you get it, then leave. An ode to egocentrizm. Otherwise, you play a little kid’s face of discontent, not knowing how to handle the unpleasant situation that arose. There will be no words of consolation.