There are things things don't understand, and we do. Talking of love isn't same as loving, loving isn't same as love. We create stories from moments that passed, and when they did we didn't know they were, what we would remember: that idea that which was never true but a fiction, a fraction in time. Like her name I can't tell that face yet I can only hate what happened at times and love what could happen but didn't and just stop. Why do you need to know what you would never want to know but how can I tell you what I don't even tell myself? Your uffs and eeekkks don't upset me- your kicks can't too. You've become more like a thought- someone unreal. I ask sometimes whether you even exist, and I can't stop suspecting you and all this. I've stopped writing and reading like l used to because I couldn't think unreal things. Now I can I guess I'm looking forward to write; write what I never wrote and send it to editors who only reject and their rejection letters is what I want to get.