It's passing through me.
The phase of metamorphism is no way romantic than any other forms of existence I’ve imagined in my life. I have nothing to tell you, except the truth you know.
No reason can comprehend the mathematical probability or the logical apprehension of your decisive absence.
you have become an autonomous machinery, a self-sufficient thinking pattern of existence. I am your architect. Unfortunately, you have become an inevitability of mine. An alter ego- a best friend, a teacher, a father and a mother. You were indeed an absolute occurrence.
A contradiction. Certainly it is far more imaginative than a toddler; more curious than a virgin and more ironical than a war widow. This is what you have done to me- the chaos. And this is what I have done to you- the burden of gravity. You die when I drain the ink in my pot.
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