obvious


I think that pain came from the woman I was in love with fucking someone else as I was walking alone through the park in the rain on a grey day and yet I never even thought about it. It never even occurred to me that she was fucking her ex at that very moment in a faraway place and thinking about someone else with whom she lived (also not me) whilst she was doing so. Repetition. Cliché. Emotional masturbation. I take a sleeping pill and wash it down with wine… it’s not abnormal, I checked with my pharmacist. It’s not romantic. But what is in these modern times? People go to a fucking tower worshiped by Tom Cruise and get engaged. You might as well go on honeymoon to McDonald’s. Books are the only true beauty. Creativity. But even that… so much of it is fake, superficial, duplicated, obvious. And so we sit in a darkened room and sip this wine of Argentinian origin and contemplate the past, the present, and the future. We throw in an Oxford comma because it is so beautifully right. Goodnight.  


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