patch-up

With you and me, I don't know what anything means. We're pushing each other away and yet I don't seem to be able to let you go.

The smoke burns slightly down my throat and to my lungs. I focus on this, and empty my head, empty the images of Skye__ beautiful face all bruised up. In the end, I can__ even give her what she__ rightfully asking. A kiss. Just a fucking kiss on her lips. Even that I__ unable to do. It__ be pathetic if our situation and our past weren__ so tragic. I take another drag of my cigarette and watch the smoke swirling in the room only lit by the moonlight. _ Duke

It's not as if we're running a hospital for sick children down here, let's put it that way. Where's the nobility in patching up a bunch of old tables and chairs? Corrosive to the soul, quite possibly. I've seen too many estates not to know that. Idolatry! Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only__f you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn't it? And isn't the whole point of things__eautiful things__hat they connect you to some larger beauty? Those first images that crack your heart wide open and you spend the rest of your life chasing, or trying to recapture, in one way or another?