having typed so much it all disappeared. Oh well it was just a draft. Again.

Fury. 1. and 1 and 1 is 3.

"A glass of wine, a loaf of bread and Thou"

But thou art gone now, and I have my wine and bread.

I do not know you
I do not know you
I do not know you.

And the cock crew, wondering why you call me only by a sobriquet you invent or not at all.
Yet He did not wonder. He knew, people are themselves, they have them and their loves to protect.

Remind me again, why I torture myself so.

Do you? You have a laptop at least, and some air conditioning.

Back again at this time of asking, how prodigal.

Can't you be more normal! And not be the guy giving away Pulitzers to yourself in your brain. This blog is yearning for it.

Some semblance of normalcy. The everyday description of the weather, your loves, your anxieties. Not for you to return, to demonstrate your power, to say, I renounce you words, I consign you to the flames in an overreaction to these same words which are your friends, but used by your enemies.

Enemies. I have none.

You claim not to. A spade is a spade. You have the power to kill. And hate. Even for just 5 minutes.

My life cannot be defined in 5 minutes.

Stupid philosophical dialogues attract little interest, romantic ones do. I know, you've been talking to your waltzess. it has kept you sane, away from me.

I'm not romantic.

The problem is you have the wrong heroes. Or you have too many. You to yourself, say oh 'What strength, what beauty', his ability to sacrifice, to live without love and you think you can do it too, when every ounce, every ounce of you demands that you suck dry every bit of love you need, to nourish your self, to placate your choler.

Tant pis.

You like French, the way it looks on the page. Tastes better then the umlauts. You, even words on a page, not spoken, can seduce you. You're too soft.

But I like the strong and the sentimental.

The strong are always sentimental. That's what gives them their strength.

I am beating around the bush. I need to interlocute my hate and frustration.

You can't, you're too soft.

I can't.

No you can't. You love drama. Now. Just count silently. Write me a waltzess chapter. Cover it up. Tolstoy thought he solved it all, and writing the biggest fattest book in European literature didn't make him happy. He had to turn to THE Big Fat Book. And it was right.

Why have you forsaken me?

To love, twenty cents and love. Not with love, but yours sincerely.