Chopin: Nocturne #12 In G, Op. 37/2
The world is softly and slowly spinning about me. You're in my head now, dancing and smiling, and the feel of your fingers winding with mine sings to me when I stop. My surrogate sister saw this one coming, but neither of us knew why. I'm worn down, working my body and mind into dysfunctional reverie so that I can't see or feel much beyond the feeling of being lost and the encroaching blood vessels of the back of my eye lids. I don't know where anything stands in me right now. I weep for my lost love randomly, out of the blue, at moments when I'm not holding on firmly and I'm alone. The long line between me and my withheld affection feels far off and uncertain, and little more than random moments crop up with anyone else. And monogamy weighs heavily but comfortably on my shoulders, a momentary coincidental truth but one I don't seem to shirk from. I'm just tired I suppose, and precautionary principle keeps me alone enough.
Everything I write and do artistically right now feels stunted, broken, incomplete