Russianbear0027

You think this pointless This living. You think it worthless This liberty. You think what we fought for Thousands died for. You think it pointless! You spit upon our grave Upon our memory Upon everything we gave! You think life is an abyss Where all is amiss You think it's Pointless. Open your mind You will find Proof, every kind That your center Is only on yourself

"I love you" You said, in one language. "I love you, too." I said, in another. "I want you to marry me." You said. "Yes, when the time is right." I said. "I confide in you, you are my best friend and lover in one." You said. "I'm being forced to move away, but it's not far." I said. You cried. I moved precisely 36 miles. I hear nothing from you until "I don't love you anymore" You said, in English. Next time, I think I'll be asking for your effective range, Not your number.

There is a curious quality to late nights and the activities done during those dark times. Including this. The words are difficult to find, for this quality is almost beyond description. You know what I'm talking about, you- the late night artist- the exhausted writer- the one who works long into the night at a feverish pace. Perhaps you only started working when it was late, a sudden inspiration took hold of you and would not let go. No? It is as if you may look upon yourself from outside, you are not the one typing, drawing, painting. You are not the one with the bleary dry eyes of one who has stared at something for hours on end. You ar