Chipped

But I'm not paint.

Que bells

Que sad music

Que the depths of the sea, or ocean, because it is both bluer and darker. Almost as deep as Joyce, and maybe if there is enough effort, everything wrong with the world and humanity will become so obvious, and one can be sad forever.

Sad forever, just imagine. Finding the obvious becomes an expertise.

Obviously, everything is broken, and simple steps of the day are so meaningless that it becomes a poem, and then there are barriers of complicated chemicals that we breathe, and these complications make tears tickle, but not flow.

It is the easy that makes salt water run; it is easy to be alone.

The forever game of reaching, and in all fun, even when both souls extend a hand, fingers apart, unbending, the skin will never touch. Energy flows whether the forever game goes on forever, connectivity doesn't.

I'm sorry that you're sad because life is mean.

And I'm sorry that you're sad by choice.

I'm sorry that you share his love, but you're dragging heavy fear.

And I'm sorry that there's no joke in your love; it's almost like another tragic game of forever.

Bells.

I'm sorry that your bells are laden with liquid, and mine won't make a sound.

Flipping over and over, graciously, life is not a game of forever. The board is sturdy but the pieces break, and drown; some float, but it doesn't mean water doesn't run down their throats.

Help, question point. There is no way to ask what cannot be answered. My answer is that you can't see it, you won't, it's all mine, and you ought to have too much of your own. Hardly an answer to your help, question point.

Repeat, repeat, repeat the meaningless steps, the breaths, the darting of gifted vision, the gift of hugging close everything that erodes.

You may not know mine. I may not know yours. More importantly, mine won't be known.

You can't

At me. 

There are no layers.