Plenty of Time

Laughing eyes almost crying, sensitive, inviting, demanding, promising… but we’ve got plenty of time. No hurry, we can eat, drink, talk. Everything is good. Nothing to fetch back… we understand. Everything. It’s all right. Nothing can kill that feeling. Nothing can stop us. Never ever. It’s like ginger and garlic, lemon and pepper… perfect. It’s so good it hurts. It’s hard to believe. It’s: I don’t deserve this. Plenty of time, because it’ll last forever. No need to push it. Just being near is more than enough. Electricity. Insanity. Oh, God, the smell of it.
So, maybe you’ve had that feeling. But when you have it for months on end, you start to believe it. You’ve thrown away the forces of time, like excess ballast. That is what I mean with plenty of time. Nothing to fetch back, and then you know: it’s real. Christ, it’s real, everything you wanted, all that you’ve stayed alive for, all you’ve fought for, no longer hopeless and in vain…! It’s in your fucking lap. It’s in your hand, and you don’t dare close your fist, for fear you’ll crush it.

I’m Not Fucking Around

Burn it down, rip it out, demolition, self-destruction, and so on. Something to be said for that. There are times when one would very much like to do so. Insanity, so inviting, with it’s absolute negation of responsibility. Combine it with violence, and there’s pretty much no answer anyone has, aside from sedation.
From the other side: what answer do you have to simple insane violence?
Or, to follow the suggestion presented by my lousy typing, what answer do you have to wimple inane violence? I know all too well what inane is, but what is, in fact, a wimple? Look, let me wimplify the whole thing for you. I’ll just stop writing now, so don’t even start thinking of the wimplications of it all. Wimplety?
It would appear I am fucking around after all.