To be miserable, or not to live in misery -- that is the question.

Look back. Look forward. Woman, can you not see that I am strained? Push, pull, mix, rinse and repeat. These are the days of our lives, so we'd better make damn sure things are going to turn out fine. Offer me some wine, of just suck the vine dry and whine ... a bit more. She never gave me a chance to explain as she speaks in verse and offers no tangible sign of solution. Can she not converse in universe?

When we were both younger, and, perhaps, far less experienced, ideals involving self-destruction seemed so interesting. I remember the dark eye-shadow days and Victorian era outer wear. Things were somehow painfully fragile, but far more interesting. The air would buzz amidst stringing desire and games of "who can cluster fuck who better," but this is all gone -- wasted away like the fragile summer days of a restless youth.

I still need you. I need you more somehow lately and I blame it on internal decay and self-imposed suffering. Or, at the very least, I blame it on functionality and the cruelty of age. You have gotten under my skin and aged with me. We no longer blossom, we thrive. We clasp life (together) in our fragile and aged hands like children running around a maypole: eager and willing to try it out a bit longer.

I love logical things. You are not logical. I love mathematics. You are not theory. No, my dear; you are complexity worth holding onto and keeping around uncharted destinations.

--copelinn