I know no one knows what to do. I know I am throw-hands-up-in-the-air frustrating. Dare I say "hopeless"? Maybe I just have yet to meet my match.
He and he and he and even she gave up too quickly. They live their lives inside an exoskeleton. Is it time to discard?
I hear pianos and smell cigars and am delighted and upset that I am stuck in a fantasy. They are expatriates and they have no skeleton; they stay up, tweaking, writing poetry with blood. My match, their matches, both burning fingertips.
So I'll wait. So I'll vacillate between disinterest in others and disinterest in self. So I'll keep carving lines into imagined bedposts. You are not yet what I want; maybe one day.