Clocks go round – even then they’re digital, and at times I wish I had got here without the getting. These late autumn leaves have no such qualms, I’m sure. What a slow future passes across their veins, butterflies of similar colours rolling their beautiful like dice inside this pallid white box of my mind. They belong inside my heart; a beating of wings and colour perfuming whatever sweetness it is that you could call home. I want to be buried there – like poetry – obsessed with describing you. Only, then I realise how meaningless that becomes – after the word, and so I leave you contextless like poetry should be.
I’ve always had a childlike obsession with love letters. Perhaps its the sense of genuine conscience rooted in self-affirmation; of mans search, by virtue and power towards the model of human nature, the unanswered and untouched. And so, this blog will from time to time house random love letters, written to no one in particular, though none the less real, much like the paradox of human existence where man must simultaneously seek closeness and independence.