I read books...and books read me. Its a connection between us. Like the connection I have with the roads. In my time of need, I drive to nowhere. While I am thinking of you, I expect you to dream of me, to imagine my hands on the wheel, to feel my hands on your neck, while they struggle to unclothe you.
I am a "despair", I want to express myself to you, to make things clear. But there is no such "thing" between us. Music is our connection to the world, helps us to translate feelings into speech, but when you call me, I am totally disordered, I lose my orientation, my original thoughts vanish and the only thing left inside me is an ancient passion.
Some time ago, I asked to drive you somewhere, anywhere. No destination. Just Love. As if it exists. You gave meaning to me. And then you took back what is yours. You never promised a land for us. Just wanted to hear an easy word, get emotionally drunk with me, like I used to do with your voice on the radio. I admired you. Then I hated you and what you represent. Then hate took its way back in the deepest side of my soul. Looking for revenge, is like looking for a needle in a haystack to me. I want to take you where I promised. To the most imaginary scenery of the world, under waterfalls, near the seaside of a lost paradise, where I can make you forget everyone...every other man...
You invent obstacles and traps for me. I invent love and memories. I build a blog, waves of a wasted love, you take a skipper and run over these very waves. You want to ruin me. I want to have a day with you. My self is reborn every time you call me, I get excited with your message, I listen to Port-Royal, and my heart stops. Tears falling, hands stretched towards your image. But the image was a defective mirror.
I cannot stop this breakdown, I can only make it go slower and slower, panishing me that I didnt make it, havent been able to attract you, spared you...
I think I still love you...
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