Oh but love, but that insistent beat of thump of feelingless heart, that object, that thing so important to our survival that we, the few, the many, the simple fools pile upon it even more meaning! For we are apart, for when we split, we are but aching messes of sad skin covered sacks. Yet, therein, is the evidence, therein, is the reasoning, is the notion of what it means to be a part of a world of people of whom could care less, yet, at the same time, could care too much for their own good. We, are individuals, unless grown attached in literal sense. You and I, for but a moment, had attempted to adhere, had attempted to seal the space between us with sweat and dribbling ejaculates, yet, somehow, it ends, it ceases, but within the memory that is best left forgotten.
So in, I, this thing, this person, with this beating heart, do indeed, from this point on, consider myself a singular person, a wanton creature of whom, prowls once more the night for a prey, for a tangle momentary fast beating heart, of pummel, and puncture of spear or fingertips, of everything that I am, bared before the eyes of someone new.
End this thing now.
So go out, so cry, so feel, so exist without me. So live on in memories, for I am out making a new.