His w

It is bass in his voice
reifying the opposition, difference of quality in low and something large.
Foamy chocolate heart of an image, still fingers hateful night, and so on. But yes, it is romantic. Searching for sources of awe even in contempt. I have a constant feeling of guilt for I don’t know what, for that and that. Quiet masochism. Dirty and cheap in between. But it is not me. I’m the receiver of his favor, of he paying attention, making me solid out of these pieces he found and what is me. 

Moon as a triple reflection on a window demonstrated by a street lamp. I go slowly by floating like asleep, as sleep itself, sleeping. Sink my hands into foam, into my hands and his voice, rub it on my face to feel his w.