You are alone in the three-seat seat, clothes waiting to dry out, tables in front of the spread, next to the share tool, communication seventeen-inch display of hope, a silent phone in the ear, on the other end of the line your belly, to call you to listen to the belly, sob, to hide he desperately shouts at his face and wants you to accept him as he is.
It was like it always was. You're the one who changed. You're trying to give hope, you're talking about the bottom, you're hoping to start from a deep start, change, change the power of change, you wish to be the last to live, but the sound doesn't change. He is aware of what is being pushed out of his mouth, he's even more aware of you.
He does not know. You do not know. That's the point. Last point. It's like the end of the movie you're crying to watch together; the girl leaves the house can not bear to listen to the insults of the man, the boy runs after the girl, catches in the hallway, catches him in the hallway, wants him not to go but he does not know why, neither knows what will happen. The history deletions didn't work, it got worse, but sometimes the worst would be the best?
