Wow. Wow. They collapsed. The illusions peeled away. We're left with the wreckage. My love, we're a lost cause. We wonder how things could've been different. Alas, we live resigned, in our muted complicity, to the destitute state of this reality.
Everything collapsed and the unfortunate few hang on, linger passively, and wait for things to change and maybe, just maybe, for a miraculous redemption. I made love to manequins and cutouts, with melodic memories of lost love swirling in my ribald mind. My beloved bathes in that thick rich crude now; its sweet nectar casts a familiar spell. "Its like going to school," she said. "I do what is expected of me." Oh, my beautiful one, even your plaintive capitulations are sonorous to this fool's ears. But, in an instant, the fool is no more, crushed under the rubble of crumbling subterfuge. I refuse your pronoucements. I refuse your kind, sweet, condescending voice. I refuse idyllic recollections and absurd fantasies. I refuse our poisioned love. And I refuse that torch that has scorched my battered, neglected, heart. Freed from illusion I say, "In my heart, you are no more."
Eight years. These eight years have blinded me. Eight years chained me to adolescent fantasy and immature desire. You are no more to me. I live for a single mission: to dismantle the horrid edifice that has deformed my beloved and destroyed our love.
