Words aren't worth a dime; then again, maybe they are Milady.
And is there another way to put it but to say 'she fucking hates me'? Incoherent as i was ever, still stand here confused and wretched, thinking how can she love me so, to hate me so ...
Maybe you were always labyrinthine, and i thought i knew you through and through. There will be an end - so soon that i wouldn't be able to cherish the fragmentation as ever- but was there a beginning? Or is there ever? or was i too blind?
This text i know, is a multiplicity, it'd mean diffrently with the varying readers and their re-readings and re-re-readings and i'd be dead in my traditional capacity as the author: the creator. Someone said that. I guess it was Barthes. So no matter how hard i try not to mean, i'll end my disassociating the ecstasy of my covering wih the heat outside; and no matter how hard to mean i'd still be meaning nothing. You may not ever find you in this text, as i found me in yours, but you'd always be there.
Thats my word, I give you that.
But words aren't worth a dime.