.The fuck

Maybe to bring the idea back, as my muse and my only mistress; maybe. Maybe to fly, to forget and bring everything above me behind my back to support me, once again and forever at l(e)ast; maybe? Maybe not.

What I can assure is myself losing gravity, stretching glances and packing them back; jumping asleep and slipping at the fact that what wasn't given were all those unsatisfactory (unsatisfucktory) fucks.

So, let's lose our passports and pretend that we're not coming back; let's loose our feelings and let everything inside. Let's get constipated, and careless, and don't give a shit (literally), and fill us up with every sight, touch, kiss, life we find until hating us for the stuffing and loving us for the fuck; the fact; no, the fuck, definitely.

The fuck committed by our minds.