In the ruins of life, I lay in yet dewy grasses, tall, uncut, peering into the cloudless sky as the rounded, weathered stones keep me company. The grass is cold and makes my fingers clammy and songs come from nowhere, drifting and existing like blue itself in this sky that is so pure and dense that it has no room to accommodate my soul and it crushes me. I lay under this pressure, unable to move as if I had just woken up, wondering where the sun is coming from, stealing no triumphs from the passing of time.

In the distance flows the passions of life in a clear and cool confluence not even a yard deep and with only mild ripples over the pebbles. At times, into it I dip my toes. I would sit over tiny escarpments and appreciate things like the funny glow of the diaphanous leaves, how they sparkle without reason without effort just the movements of the silhouettes letting spill the light. On whim, I sway my fingers in those cool waters of desire, of wanting things and people and atoms that seek the place they belong. Over my knuckles like breeze rushes the cold, clean metaphor and I try to grasp onto this tangible but untenable thing. That is, sometimes I try to feel things and understand why we do things like write words asking other people to email us

Twenty years old. I want to fall in love with someone who is amazing, someone whose trails lead to indescribable vistas where erroneous sentiments are silenced and we hear only our breathing, the squirming of our tongues, and the blood in our ears. I am dying like everyone else is dying. But I feel alone in the pit under my diaphragm like no one knows. I tell you that I am not interested in shallow things. Things of limited scope or meaning. The things that I pursue are so abstract and tenacious that life seems but a pale container for these feelings. I have stopped caring for so many things just because they stopped being important to me as I've grown older and older. What I have left are the few satisfactions that make me feel as if I am truly alive. But if I am really objective, then perhaps what I want is someone who is as sanctimonious as I am, who wants something in life to be worthwhile, to be reassured that we are doing well in our endeavors, to find recourse when we feel we have no other options available to us when life seems to be nothing more than a path of hours onto our demise. Until then, I must be content with the desires and feelings smoldering in my chest to keep myself warm as I sleep away those hours.

Please, if you are truly capable of escaping the horrible, banal expressions of human nature, if you can meet me in this place outside the usual transverses of humanity, then I will show you the feelings that I live with, the things of which I am capable and of which I am not. What I have to offer you is meager but may, perhaps, be enough to sustain you if what you need is someone who knows what discontent is.