What my restless self itches to do now is to pick up a decent camera that has never even existed, don my favorite "Kurt Cobain" jumper of yours, rave dementedly in the midst of this heavy downpour of bliss, and make some intense, hard love with my doted queen, Nox.
Everything else is a fucking lie. Your solicitude and sympathy, your anaphoric heartbeat-lasting interest towards my misery and all the brief buoyancy you plied virtually are as real as the happiness I solely induced so I could live through my days like the rest of the universe.
No, I don't opine you'd be prancing around in the rain with me; physically or mentally. I know you too well, my love.
But still, this silly question I should have long unwind from my mind has been pondering through the placid night;
Where are you?
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