Could I write you off? Draw a thousand words until you lose meaning, tear myself away from everything that you ever touched inside me. I think I could, if I really wanted it. I need to want it.
The thing is, there is no planned way out. There is not even a clear intention, just vagueness and heartbreak. There are not even images, just the abstract memory and the constant detailed thought.
The thousand words might exist just because; maybe they need no reason. They serve no purpose but to temporarily soothe the mind and make one think that one is doing all things possible to get rid of that unexistant image, of that last day of summer. A thousand words, a thousand hours, a thousand pages later, we’re still on the same course. I can’t do away with you.