The first kid carrying napalm on his hand asks a curious question, 'How many surrealists does it take to screw a lightbulb?' He answers it himself saying, 'Fish.' The crowd bursts into laughter. There is no crowd. There is no kid carrying napalm. But there really is that question.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.