And yet I do, again, and again.
I do not want to write about love.
Everyone does. I ought to be different.
There are other things,
Death, ambition, poverty…
The dance of dust motes in the sunlight
I could write about my dreams,
morbid as they are;
Of medieval spectacles of electrocuting the poor
(yes, I really did dream that)
My unconscious mind is a terrible place.
I am heading nowhere,
Where can I seek recluse, pray tell
away from these thoughts, these troubles,
My waking life is no better.