Intuition is what makes life eternal—that in each new moment, there is no set puzzle piece or formula. Reality is inconclusive. No one can hold your hand. There is no rescue. We are, religiously and hopelessly, alone.

I wrote a poem about happy times with a lady,About how nice it feels to love and laugh like crazy,But there is after all a pen in my hand and not her hair.All happy stanzas have a sad air.

She was a reference point of a good I agreed on. Without a friend, we sail on a sad plank of wood called ‘the self’ on a vast ocean pending a party. With a friend, however, we voyage.

It's weird how we behave how we look like, a sign they stole you.

Our eyes see the future we desireAnd if yearning is enough, turn blind entireTo any threats that challenge our hope.Oh, how small indeed is Reality's scope.

There is no moving on, just moving with.

It seems the recipe for human life is:3 lbs. of crumpled flesh generating too much electricity to handle,Atop bodies that aren't ever as touched as much as we please,Powered by hearts that end up magnetizing to the wrong people,Accompanied by souls that talk to other souls up until disease.