Sunday, March 15

Blunt

SO IF I SIT down to write and fail, then you will have to forgive me, unlucky reader. I wrote and the words were all complete, spelled correctly and in perfect order, but they were not the words that I came to find within me, but merely words I chanced upon. If you wish to read something good, then go to someone dying, otherwise leave me alone and I shall leave you alone. The decanter is empty and my glass is almost empty, too. I have many words within me – all of them turbulent and unsatisfied – and one day I shall put them here for all to read. I will have tired of wasted opportunities. I will not have long left. Sibelius’ Violin Concerto in D Minor has come on to keep me company in this cold March night. It is infinite, one of my favourite pieces, inimitable in its ability to penetrate my chest! So what if my lover is not talking to me; let her keep her silence and I will stay unhappy as I was before her. I will wrap our love in eleven months of days and hold it in me, unwilling to let go. Nothing – not even she – can take that from my mind! So eagerly playful is the wind hushing on my windowpane. Memories have been milked dry. I have cream in my moustache and would like to know who to go to! Where are the reasons for staying up late at night? But overall, I have failed you, the reader, and have buzzed before your eyes, only to leave you with nothing. Bored and tired as me, you shall undress and go to bed.

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