Every now and then, there comes a time when the neutral and impersonal forces of the world turn and come together in a thundercrack of judgement. There is no reason for the sudden terror, the feeling of condemnation, except that circumstances all mirror that inner doubt.

I lay under your covers last night, devouring all that is around me; like a convict having his last supper: the way you stir slightly in your sleep, the way that musky scent of your cologne and cigarette smoke lingers in your bedroom, the way you asked if the air conditioning was too cold, the way you smiled when I woke up in the morning.

Everything told me that this might just as well be a dream, for I am constantly tormented by my doubts, by my fears - and knowing me, I keep thinking nothing will happen, nothing will take form, nothing. For all that I am worth, I am, perhaps, not capable of selfless love, for I am constantly expecting something in return.

Tell me something, anything, so I don't continue expecting, believing, hoping. Tell me something so I can stop doing what I'm doing. Tell me something so I won't continue existing on this abstract Platonic realm out of time and flesh on the other side of all those mirrors.

Tell me something so I know.