Vacuum cleaner. Mint. Christmas is coming.
Nairobi. Tomorrow. Meeting.
My cat vomited on the sofa.
You pour out all your love on the sofa as well.
I closed my eyes hard enough
and I could imagine that all my bad decisions
were just that: bad decisions,
and not rotten meat, and not love wasted,
and not semen trying to fulfill its function
in my empty stomach.
Love is just genetic shit.
But oh fuck, if it could be anything more
like, I don't know, an ice cream in the park,
or like a promise.
Not any promise.
Not like: I'll fuck you very hard.
Not like: I'll hurt you every single weekend.
Not like: I'll make you hate me. Yeah baby. I'll do.
I'll vomit all your fucking cells.
And then I'll go to sleep.
One more night.