6.19

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, my main task has been to cavitate the still waters of friend's dreams. I've introduced an element of tragedy to the narrative of his life that I never intended, but what use is there in sorrow? It was necessary. His dreams were not my dreams. His life was not my life. Right? Is that not the way of the world? To tear the very heart from a flesh monster we like to call love, just to service a megalomaniacal urgency that wells up from under the surface of a deeper pool we never swim in, not of dreams, its surface glass, but of nightmares frothed by selfishness?