How To Put A Girdle On A Man

Sitting on the sofa, with her hair up, a book on the table with the television on mute and a mild tune since leaving the laptop speakers.
Music with a touch of melancholy. A soft piano and a sad voice.
A cigarette in the ashtray, consumed with little desire to smoke.

Sitting sideways, in one of these positions are not very good for the back, legs twisted. And the sheet blank.
He typed something. As he scribbles in the margins of a book. It had nothing to say, but he was not sad. He was aware of things. And all gave him the same. Even the not write anything.

Actually, I did have things to say. But he knew how. When he found the words, he lacked the strength to do so. Sometimes he wished deeply that someone came into his head and saw the things she saw, he had seen how he understood the world, what hurt him, why he did not care. That he saw no need to write things as they were for her. And above all, he wanted someone he cared anything.

Meanwhile, silent.




When your devil complains And tears you up and to start again. And when you're lying on your stage and nothing works, just living hurts, forget.