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Let them have it; it's theirs

 Beauty goes out of the world and it's only the beating of flesh that fills the air. It's only the moaning of some whore made good by the bank balance of a richer man. Let them bang on at it. Let the flesh smells rot the air. As for this withering part of the tree, As for me:  I will enjoy the last rays of the sun.  People are such a disappointment.

Love slows down time

 It could have been a dream, that hazy summer afternoon in Thailand when my girlfriend went out with her friends on a graduation road trip. I was back for some time and would leave again for Donsak where I was acting as an au pair. I don't know why these emotions are indelibly set within me like gems. Why they shine and seem to move about in the gleam of the day as if it's still summer. I got up and made my way to the bus station and I recall that I was listening to Frankenstein because audible was free during covid. 

There is a constant frustration burning within me for a lack of great ideas, and a longing for intense emotions. I turn to things I shouldn't when this happens. I gloat over the female form; I gloat over many female forms - these days it's easy - wishing to reclaim that one moment again. That sentimental feeling of loving and being loved on an intense burning Thai day. I want to restart the whole thing, to go back in time and find that she's still there. 



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