A fruitless attempt...

I have been reading Bukowski for the past hour and half. Drinking the wine left over from last winter and smoking the last couple of cigarettes of the night. And I don't know where this will lead me. I started out with a note to you, which I didn't have the courage to finish. I didn't have the courage to tell you why I chose the ways I did. And yet I know I'll regret this the next morning like the many things regretted on a drunken nights excuse. I'm hoping to find songs and sounds that fit seamlesslely into the night. Of confused emotions in conflict with the rational world I will wake up in. Finding passions that I had thought were shipwrecked in the middle of the great ocean, in complete isolation, in absolute lonliness, feelings from a body that's been dead for years; Is magical. Like the card trickster guessing the cards the audience were thinking of. And the surprise that spread across the hall of admirers. It's more than just that actually, everyone knows it's a trick at the end of the day. Unlike a child whose genuine amazement has beset me too. I sit partly inebriated, stunned and wonder by myself; how this dead body of mine was awakened by your coming.