You're so bitter and with so much accusatory words feeding on infinitesimal matter.
Like birds afraid of shadow, we sat there for a very long while after the film. I held her hand for the fourth time that night and it felt warmer every time I hold it. I told her the difference between sadness and melancholia was the imagination of her scent. That part of us that didn't know the becoming wasn't necessarily be acceptance.
When did everyone starts to feel the same about everyone ? The inferiority distinct from over-surfacing confident over a person's self worthiness. I gave her a look on the last summer of July. She gave me back the look. The look from overwhelming happiness. I have this uncertainty on happiness or anything remotely happy. I believe everything cease to nothingness, like my happiness, her look. Becoming of a good piece of light that never escape the room. Too much companionship or I'm feeling less habitual solitary. This summer of July where the light seep out onto the masses.