It beats.

And it aches, for the ones who fought to see the light, for the ones who fought, for the ones who struggled, for the ones who tried.

It aches, for the mother who gave life, only to witness it slipped away too soon, for the lover for whom the vows lost their place, for the children- precious children- I can't go on

2 miles apart, I barely know you. In fact, I didn't at all. I wish I still didn't. If this didn't happen, I wouldn't, would I? I wish I didn't. Not in the way I know now. It is too harsh, too unexpected, too like the sudden storm, I detest them all - the beasts who thought extinguishing a flame which another has lighted with affection was justifiable, and the monsters who shamelessly claim your glory for themselves. Utterly disgraceful, and conceited.

I can't read it.

The only spot you should sit is next to me, you wrote.

True, I talk of dreams,

Which are the children of an idle brain,
begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
which is as thin of substance as the air
and more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And being angered, puffs away from thence, 

Turning his face to the dew-dropping south, 

- Romeo and Juliet (Act 1, Scene 4)

The call

A person called and asked if I was in the country, and I said yes, but who are you?
The person told me a name I couldn't recognise among my acquaintances but a small part (actually, a big part) of me wished it has been P---- instead of C----, and then I realised the foolishness of my imagination and have to end the call because I am rather susceptible to that accent, and I would have gone on imagining, eh?

but then that compels me to take up my pen again, and I suppose I should be thankful?