Four months, twenty one days, if I may be correct for both our sakes, I saw a silhouette. I surmise art thou here now -
You are here now.
A long time yet, not so for art minds tormented for days of a year, and 'tis surprise when does paradise not implode in me;
a long hour, a long-long hour, yet not so for hath I lost a thought one to a million times that remains a one pit from the stony paving of the lane I live in.
I am there. You can find me. May I say it en masse? May I dare? But you see, dare I will for dare I must. You will find me again someday.
So I say, "I am there, and you can find me.
So I say, "I still live in this house and so have you come back to offer company."
How did you know, oh my brethren hath I not had in what will I call an aeon?
'Tis name that makes so much sense at times.
On a red desk with red a coat of mine, four years old now -
On a red desk with brown hands lain upfront me eyne and touched they the cold, flat, and black face of something absolutely lifeless - Oh I repeat! -
On a red desk with mauve cum pink shirt on my bodice of what color I did not care to know, heard I your voice again.
Alas! Alas! Alas! is it a miracle or another terrible doom presaged for I heard thee call my name.
Alas! What must I give now!
On the concrete of both my folks, like on their affluence I tread now, wonder I what must I give now.
I think a little, and then for a little while with the same red garb swathing the skin of my arms so bare otherwise.
I cried last night, but again, did I?
This is still a dream - such a dream when no wonderland must it be. How come, then?
I...