And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered our names.

(Emily Dickinson)

As I've come down with a fever I started to vent my frustration in poetry while I was sitting in my favourite coffee-bar and waiting for my darling minion. Obviously, my lighter turned out to be used up, so I kept clicking it, simultaneously thinking about the veritable reason why I am still with him in my mind. It is hard to discern anything in our affair, nevertheless I was like statue-statuesque with 'this person' - sized cloud above my head looking the waiter lasking to light my cigarette. Well, it doesn't matter so far as we all know that signs and visions are for the religious the superstitious and the lower class. I believe that we're alive but I should give up all reminiscences about us
'until the moss had reached our lips
and covered our names'.
[622x415]