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We write about our thoughts and we think about our feelings and we feel the things that we do and love and believe and share and I want words, I want words to encompass the essence of the present, the lingering scent of the past and the anticipation of what's to come that you surrender every fibre of your being to focusing on keeping your hands in fists so as to not spoil what is or what isn't. I want to overcompensate for the wasted, the empty, the neglected, the deprived, the forgotten, I want to overindulge until I am seeing but I am not, I want them all to coincide and blend, amalgamate, marry into one beautiful splendid moment of everything and nothing. I want to hold on but I know the beauty is buried in the letting go, something so precious that you suffocate its whimsical image by bolting it down with bricks, bricks of steel and heavy hearts. I want sentences, and I crawl under the table, picking at crumbs and scraps of fallen greatness, begging for more, more to sustain and nourish, but most of all to reassure.