dear all - the - butterflies - which - have - died

n' then just one day which seems no different from any other day... people walk away from your life. n' then... you can only hear the sound of the record player when all the songs have already ended. n' then there's no one to tell you when this darkness will break. there's no one to tell you about the next sunrise. n' then there are a couple of infinite december nights throughout the year n' you've got so much of time to talk to yourself.

n' the mental illiterates orbit around your life... contributin' just to multiply the astronomical waste. they don't know how to read your mind... n' your thoughts do not say a single word. n' all the words you speak now just manages to remind you of all the words which you've already spoken... as if you've moved into some new house where someone stayed for so long... every smell confirmin' the absence of the previous lives which stayed there once.

people do not write obituaries for the dead butterflies... n' you must understand why. they're all so short lived... this world would have been just about stories of the dead. it's not just me but the whole world which lives in the past... as they only talk about your beautiful wings but where do the dead bodies go?

n' i want to burn down all my years... so that i forget everythin' one by one... the past becomin' the present with recedin' traces of the future... n' i perish as an infant. i want to curse all the people of partial amnesia.... forgettin' about my death.. n' talkin' about my butterfly-life with colorful wings.

condolence-fully yours,
.....

p.s. you must understand... this is not quite a time of meetin' someone n' fallin' in love. this is a time of fallin' in love n' meetin' someone.