Did you ever notice me? This question I throw in the wind, that is only a mere little breeze after you're gone. You and your elbows. Your squares and circles, and the terrific sculptures you made with them.
This kind of thing happens only every few decades. My suggestion was going to be that we took advantage, but the future is now the past tense and the futility of something that was never to happen. Even the brown-coloured eyeballs that pierced me from that ragged crimson sofa knew it. Even the cleverness in me knew it. So why all these records now? I am completely sure you're not, by any means, asking yourself the same questions. There's nothing to blame you for, as there is nothing that ever existed in the first place.
The only remains are these terrific scribbles that you've left on all of my papers.
I am your only scribe, and you have been the code that I must understand. Because otherwise this blindness is gonna eat me, and I don't wanna surrender like that.
Among all the other things that you've left, you've left me with the cruel doubt whether this was fair or not. And to be honest, it is not the question I'm fearing, but the crystal-clear answer that comes with it.
That is something rude to do. To leave people and questions behind you just like that, as if none of the two had ever happened.
This play only exists in my head, I tell myself, therefore the only thing that can be done is to let it go as it came and be happy to remember it. To remember your eyeballs and the piercing that came with them.