Because I was here and it was there.

You want it to make perfectly no sense; only you know.

Feels like i'll get sick not putting the words in a sentence; like how crying once in a while helps to get the toxic out of your system. it doesn't matter what sense it is to you. it does to me.
maybe it's because of starting again. again. that word, who'd wish it not be ecstasy(?); oh, the bliss. again, again, again.
halt. too much of a good thing can be bad. but what if it was bad to begin with? oh, what dread.

all over again. argh. the frustration. but the will, the will. the possibility; the hope; the belief.
oh, the humanity!
desires. delicious that word. oh, but the guilty indulgence! guilty? guilt?

deserved. but why? to watch in satisfaction the antagonist suffer; to drench in delight to reward the sweat; to say 'this belongs to me!'.

you see, i still have my guard up. i will not tell you. at least not how it is.