i dreamt of a man who writes about firsts. beautiful firsts.

for instance, he writes about a lovers’ first contact of skin. the first touching of the hands that is more powerful, divine and pure than a quick kiss on a first dates.

he writes about the pleasure of the first love making where both people bare each other's truths in a poetic union- no pretense, no judgments, just two bare souls accepting each other.

a fuckin beautiful scenario.

he draws inspiration from memory- from heartwarming memories full of love.
he writes them over and over creating sentences and paragraphs of words that resonates, recreates and somehow re-enacts the wonderful and amazing experiences of love.

that fuckin powerful and beautiful love.

oh love.

through time he learned to draw just from the happy memories, the feelings associated with each specific act minus the face.

removing the face somehow takes away a huge chunk of pain associated with each act.

he writes and writes. sometimes he writes by pen, most of the time he types, but he will fuckin write until the pen and the digital paper bleeds with his words. he will continue to write until he runs out of creative ink and until all of his invisible tears run dry.

and that's how he survived and countered the seemingly insatiable blows of the daily melancholia.

that's how he survived america.


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