a letter to cats and dogs
dear pet(ty) fantasy,
there is no point, really. am i jaded? probably. am i taking pleasure in those overly discreet moments? not so, but probably. i can feel people. i may have felt you. perhaps i am not jumping into vain conclusion this time. i have a list of what-not-should-bes. it’s rather too overrated to dwell in them, with you at the bottom.
it threatens me somehow. i’m still not having a single y-dream. i should’ve had it by now. well of course, gone are the days of ‘the one juan.’ it has always been too selfish of me. i won’t repeat my self. i won’t make it repeat itself.
possibilities. possibilities. no options, actaully. you should just have to look and figure that hidden tiny smile in the corner of my eye. that’s all for now. that’s all what will be.
if you give some fuzz on things i said and so, take your time. it won’t hurt. i will always keep the civility. you can count on that.
*sIGh sHruG* WHAT THE FUCK AM I INTO? nothing actually, just a casual one and then some. same position~ different angle~ definitely no possibilities. i’m not designed to drool over, or yet roll over and thank my fucking lucky star.
making sense? i’m not for sure. he will be my little secret. i mean i like playing with his psyche. oh fuck! here i go again. but no no no really… this time it’s just play. pure motherfucking play. it’s all in the mind. there’ll be no evidence. there’ll be no point. all torrential facts and then some will be classified. sick [sic].
the point of F is not to be out there. it’s just about sitting in the corner, watching from the inside… looking out. i got this one. don’t worry, i know what i’m doing (or else i’ll be finally running to timbuktu). sounds fun? let’s get it on then!
sitting 110th to the left, to the left…. xuxu
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