Thers no Bukowski coolness to this. No Kerouacian go go go. Theres no typewriter on a hillside. Theres nothing of value anymore, its all compost now.

There was a time when I would value my own thoughts and words. I think as time goes on, a combination of weariness and empty headed-ness has taken over. Too tired to look anymore. To speak, to eat, even when hungry. 

Have I turned into one of Pavlovs dogs? Have I become a junky? Why this appetite? Why are needs so piercingly simple? I have always believed in the power of the present. Yet, it somehow eludes me. Sometimes in a picture. A picture of you. What is this power you have over me? Its like a disease, completely out of my control. There is no rational reason for me to feel this way. Is it witchcraft? Not the Sinatra kind, a real witchcraft. Are you trying to destroy me and why? 

I have turned into a dog. 

I dont know when this happened.

Your eyes and your smile branded me.

I had no idea of the size of the regret.

La enorme distancia.

The enormous distance.

The wake in your heart, when someone swims through it,

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