How am I?
I keep looking for the answers within my obscurity.Within my pale languid fingers,shaking to type,after a long unending hold of a burning cigarette.
I keep on looking at the futilities around me and try to avoid that obvious disappointment.I begin to hate the collage of human expressions looking at me from the monitor of my computer. As if I can hear the mockingbird sing. Incessantly.
Are my shadows shrinking on the freshly painted walls of my mediocre house? Will I ever be able to talk about a blue sky and swimming purple fishes around it? Will I be able to catch those melancholic clouds again and kiss their lips with a deep redness?
How am I ?
I don't know now. Let me go back and read Brother's Karmazov!