Oh, I sure know how it feels, despite when I wasn’t looking that way.
Such young the flesh a friend his first dear woman.
Finding him when he’s out and answered by the aunt.
Wondering what does she do when no one’s home.
The boring wife in a house awaits to be stowed away.
But they were untainted speculations, unlike those now.
She’s right, I was young and fancying the revery in my head, only in my head, only an image.
Just easily realized it when she said so, all are just the characters of my story.
The lines conceived and perceived were my inventions. The way only I was thinking.
But why until now, the very relevant sense or sentiment revives itself to bring up another spring, another bewilderment?
Feel and rediscover again the resistance and obstruction as the desire between me and the destination.
Thought the day of such enthusiasm is already behind me and I am already storing my books in the closet, turns out it’s just right behind me.
Have I had enough of this frenzy? as young or grown?
Guess I would one day become either of them if I don’t do something about it.
who to lose his wife and everything for the enthusiasm of the past days an extraordinary pupil revives and can’t help to help him out in the form of text, or the undiscovered desire probably allocates itself in the closet by the undergoing of time and people?