It’s killed. It’s dead. It’s rotten and would never come back.

Sitting there you take your beer, take a nip. You look up to the sky that tells a completely different story. It doesn’t make any, any bloody sense. What the fuck does she tells right now right there?
The sky is pulsating. Bolts are lightening the dark, the black bulk, the rain stopped. The beer in your hand gets warmer. This is so damn fucking romantic you wouldn’t be surprised about a head on your shoulder and a weird story of a broken heart.
But there isn’t a glimpse of that, not the slightest sign. Mouths are babbling about nearly interesting things, those you would give a fuck if reading in a magazine. Bullshit on a balcony, and your inner romantic is killing you.
Unable to join the talk, kind of mentally too slow because your emotionally status quo is breaking your thoughts from thinking straightforward.
The bulk laughs about this and that, your beer is empty, all the pretty faces around you, and you and your fucking, your fucking romantic feelings. And this sky doesn’t make thinks any better at all.

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It’s really gone. It’s really fun when it’s there. I swear. Try it. It’s a little softer, no one gets hurt when it comes around that’s the fun with it. It doesn’t cry out a lot. It colours the black with a little violet, a second moon, a few more stars, flying cookies and cuddly animals who smile.
They are all that much in their books, it seems, that they want the stories to be told. But what’s about the stories to tell?
Sitting there, waiting, too deep in thoughts, in the own mind, trying not to give up.

Holy. Is it dead? Is it gone? Was it just in all the movies. Doesn’t it even exist in the outside world at all? It’s a lot about the same feelings. And you sitting there. Getting sad, getting wondering what the fuck is going on. Wondering where your sense for adapting flavours of situational constellations, joining telling the same jokes, joining the laughter, has disappeared.

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