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?

A hood no longer binding

Go back to where you came from,

Crawl back into the realm of nothingness and immorality, to the darkness and beyond, we have no need of you and your serpent tongue. Deceit is your asset, inspired by narcissism and self-adoration, gratitude does not reside in your abhorrent mind, neither does the truth in your heart. Your glibful tongue, your scheming mind, a testimony against you. Crawl back to where you came from. The sooner, the better. For the sake of everyone (not that you'd care), do humanity at least one favour. 

corrupted

in silence we sat at the edge

of the night, waiting for the Sun 

no moon, just an outline of your 

shrinking figure, and it was there 

'the world is so alone,' you mused

and watched the prophesy fulfilled

in silence you sat alone, 

and lose yourself in thoughts 

jeopardising, you wondered if you're

still sane, and it was there

'the world is so alone,' you mused

and found company

No longer silent, the serpent whispered

vile and corrupt, things of the world

to you, sheltered child, and your

senses now twisted, it was there

'the would is so alone,' you mused

and he mused with you.

Will you sit in silence again?

and implore me to sit with you

as if the Sun may never come up. your 

skewed perception of 'being there'

'the world is so alone,' as you will muse

and air dirty linen out

Lone souls

It's a painful thing to live and exist, in the crowd full of extraordinares.

The warriors shaken, the vase is broken 

We keep falling into the enemy's snares 

like a cassette tape, that lost its memory

Tragedy keeps on playing over and over 

we lost that spirit of 'dance and be merry' 

And for Narcissus now do we labour 

Twentieth

It is the twentieth and hurrah, a new year. 

Was it a month ago or today? I can't seem to remember but I shouldn't be that obsessed to remember such things. Still it burns my cheeks to remember what I did the last time, and whether you remember, that naught was spoken except your inquiry. It is such a shameful thing to do and I realised the foolishness of it only after you broke the silence and jolted my consciousness awake. I would have said something, I would have waited to say something, or I would have waited for you to get frustrated and even chide me from the other end. I would have, but I couldn't bear myself to accept rejection in adamant retaliation about professionalism and the like. And tis a shameful thing to have even been done. 

And when I hastened away, what I forgot to say, was all I have to say.

Hello, Happy birthday. 

Is that inherent, or nurtured - the art or, lack thereof, of having no conscience or empathy, embedded in narcissism and self-pity?

Absolutely revolting.