Loss

 Nothing but loss: loss of words to describe the sensation of acute loneliness in a city of sleeping giants, the submission to every other things disjoint, like flowers half bloomed, like couples separated after months of vigorous sex, submission to the core non-being that every single breath of you represents, loss and greater amounts of loss, of ways to find a friend in this enormous world - whose enormity can only be comprehended with the help of bombs or self destroying images, alcohol, simple memories of being together, enormous gigantic regrets much much bigger than the visible world, and we see so little of it, we hear only when footsteps recede, we smell only when solitude smells like warm shit, we endure our own kingdom in silence, with wet towels and stale cakes, we are a civilisation in distress and ecstasy - and we fail to identify ecstasy from living just on the edge, and then there is loss, the loss being either the address of our non-home which we call home now, or even the farthest memories when we still believed in Godly qualities like memories soaked in unquenched love, or the appreciation that without all of these, we are nothing but we can't help to be other than something for others - the sea fades in this icy loss, the sun dreams of foggy death, but the people between the sun and the sea, the people underneath, they survive.