I Am Talking About Misery And All

I Am Talking About Misery And All Of Its Implications.

There You'll Find The Place I Love Most In The World. The Place Where I Grew Thin From Dreaming. My Village, Rising From The Plain. Shaded With Trees And Leaves Like A Piggy Bank Filled With Memories. You'll See Why A Person Would Want To Live There Forever. Dawn, Morning, Mid-day, Night: All The Same, Except For The Changes In The Air. The Air Changes The Color Of Things There. And Life Whirs By As Quiet As A Murmur...the Pure Murmuring Of Life.

Nothing Can Last Forever. There Isn't Any Memory, No Matter How Intense, That Doesn't Fade Out At Last.

Because To Write, One Must Truly Suffer.

There Was No Air; Only The Dead, Still Night Fired By The Dog Days Of August. Not A Breath. I Had To Suck In The Same Air I Exhaled, Cupping It In My Hands Before It Escaped. I Felt It, In And Out, Less Each Time…until It Was So Thin It Slipped Through My Fingers Forever. I Mean, Forever.