Love could be fractured and serve different purposes, and that intense love could be divided, between people just as easily as between moments of time.

Love could be fractured and serve different purposes, and that intense love could be divided, between people just as easily as between moments of time.

Imperceptibly, more time passes when I'm not remembering our every moment together, not recreating our every conversation, re-imagining our love-making. It is immeasurably sad.

What passes relentlessly through the years is blood, and time; all the bitterness or warmth along the way is almost incidental. Even blood gets forgotten eventually, bleached into myth which are bleached of all colour into ashes of myth.

You're beautiful, but you're somewhere else. That's okay. I can handle that. But we won't continue as friends, not just now. I like you as a lover, not a friend.

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.

And I come to realise that all my small todays, the way I act, will lead into my tomorrows.