Waiting room reverie.

Jerry, you're a dick.

The more I sought out company of other people, the void gets bigger with every passing second as if they're some airborne virus. And all the conversations I feed on are growing stale , every syllable exchanged for every morphemes gave me migraines. The worst was the suffocation, the memories burnt my lungs. They said it's terminal, and I think they're right. Every time I walk down these jungle of designer everything, the marble walls and cold air in every corner screams your name. Vision's distorted than ever, I'm seeing cracks move in ways I can't fathom, creating cracks in places I never thought existed.

They should have invented smartphones that can empathize.

Everything came in in pairs of even numbers, a whole of wholes and it seems like their seams are perfectly sewn, they have their magic cards in dark and illuminated colors along with someone to trail on them like a shadow and gives warm hugs. But I wouldn't know how it goes beyond to the patterns, they're all languages I can't make sense and maybe they keep anchors somewhere deep inside; rusty and old, just like the thought of you, my darling. And maybe I miscalculated. And maybe odd numbers exist outside the math books. And maybe they've invented a way to inject feelings into ice. 

But really, they should put snacks on fitting room waiting halls.

  

Author's Note

Interpret this as you like, tell me what you want to say even about other things.
Or you can just ask that "person" out for coffee or a date.