The house is a mess, a huge mess. The table is a mess, the floor is a mess, the kitchen is a mess, there are papers everywhere, my dog ate a book, and there is a banana lost somewhere.
Everything is a disorder. But the truth is that I love this chaos.
I love the sheets on the bed, the crystals in the sink, my lamp, the condoms under the bed, the coffee pots on the table and the fucking books on the ground, and the poems, all those boring and unfinished poems that stroll around, and may stay like that for some time.
I fucking love them.
I know, that when the morning come I’ll have to put some order. I cannot stay like this forever.
Maybe I will have to receive somebody, a friend or a girl in the night, who knows. I know, but until them, I got time to secretly love this sweet and perfectly aligned mess.