what else is there to write about
if not love?
who cares of the meanderings of man
as a soloist?
his woeful voyage of various
passionlessness
engagining in his lonely
megalomania
the capital I(d)
what else is there to live for
if not love?
wandering the barren grime of urban
landscapes
weathering its electric storms
without adore
with the insane belief
that less is more
"no!" i say
this is not for me
this is not
for us
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