Sworn To Be Content With Loneliness

"I know you're leaving in the morning, when you wake up,

Leave me with some kind of proof, it's not a dream"

Reality brushes the tips of our senses, whispering truths we're obliged to believe, because there seems to be no other explanation concrete enough for us to lay our hopes; our dreams; our fears; on.

Corporeality lends us a shoulder to rest our tear-sodden heads when imagination does not fulfill its promises.




White room

White sheets

Is your absence my existence...