mood: byron vass is the star in my eye "We all reject out of hand the idea that the love of our life may be something light or weightless; we presume our love is what must be, that without it our life would no longer be the same; we feel that Beethoven himself, gloomy and awe-inspiring, is playing the "Es muss sein!" to our own great love." - Milan Kundera. Hysteria, as put my mr. eliot, is that of a heaving breast, the laughing mouth, the way that the hair falls over the eyes, shut and embraced in the thought, the general contradiction and love of the spoken words, the adoration your breath on her cheek; and here he was: twenty-six, thriving, pulsation that is starved, filled with contempt because of the rejection felt by the laughing haughty woman. And he cursed them down, then obsessed with these creatures, that ungreatful being. I follow the words he is saying, with the masked adverbs describing the fog of the breath, and attraction that he's felt to those women. That mouth of hers is damp, smoldering, burnt with the taste of ash. The way his eyes wouldn't follow, the way the body has a capability to sway against yours, the desire, the desire, the animalistic capabilities that I have held close to your body. The lonliness of a human body screams for the touch (now). The temptation of the heart to be beating against mine and yours and yours and the body itself is warm and tangled and left coughing through the entanglment of bedsheets like those veins of spider's webs. They trace up and up and catch your eyes and the beating of the heart in your throat like a drum. You've caught my imagination in the palm of your hand. My general captivation and there's your narrative left inside of my body. How do i keep on moving. How do i keep on moving. How does the heart keep on beating? Left behind, destraught and unkept in your bedroom. The hands stretched across the throat and the words left in place, untangible and thoughtless without love. I'd love to miss you, but you would not wait.