In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
Now I can look at you in peace; I don't eat you any more.
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart; imagine my heartbeat when you are in this state.
You misinterpret everything, even the silence.
Don't despair, not even over the fact that you don't despair. Just when everything seems over with, new forces come marching up, and precisely that means that you are alive. And if they don't, then everything is over with here, once and for all.
Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.