Saturday, November 20, 2004

fix it, goddamn it

He lays on the bed looking at the ceiling with open eyes
The ventilation is dead and the atmosphere quiet but not serene
His seek of a chill room comes to no avail
Comedies on the comedy channel are no longer funny
Silly british programmes no longer amuses him
He counts the days that has passed and the remaining days to be met upon
A sigh is let out and a hope sets in the mind
Memoirs of her funny antics animates in his mind
He did not laugh out then but silently inside he did
There isn't a single person to talk to
So he closes his eyes and chokes
into slumber while drenched in his own sweat