Again, I must come back here with yet another entry about you. They almost feel repetitive now, or at least predictable. Every quarter or so, I come back, and the first inevitable blow sends me off the ground, suspended and floating backwards, because, unlike the rational outsider, I never seem to be prepared for such apocalypses.
These little insinuations, or "guesses", as you call them. What are they for? Except to tear away at me little by little, so that everything I've built myself--everything I thought were real and unmovable (even by you)--seem like a house of cards, crumpling down with your careless little blow of air. A merciless smirk lurking around your blood red lips.
Do I seem melodramatic? Very well then, I am melodramatic.
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