With the pulse made from a rhythmic heart on the crescent mooned music-filled city, this extraterrestrial rushed home to tell what he feels. Home is what you make it. You have to make your home by the time you are my age. I feel glimpses of what it meant to me take form from long intervals. No one in between. I’m not out of breath if that impresses anyone. All I want to tell, whether it is just to myself or not, is that I’m trying to write the modern love story. A tragedy I can not foresee. Maybe, because because. But, although my therapist referred to me as crazy and admits he can not help me, and the hundreds of friends I’ve made don’t seem to have any answers – nobody does – I just want to be a good man and an honest writer.
I’m sorry to think that there aren’t people who see that this life is just an infinite test. I’m sorry to think that because I know there are people with virtues. I know my cardinal. I am not elona in this endevor. If I am to cut any cords, it only prolongs the waiting for unity. I don’t know if I see what I dream of in this life. But I will be as dedicated to my belief until my heart stops beating, I can cry no more, and my words become meaningless. but the fire has not gone out. We are made of stars, and stars burn for billions of years. In ancient Greek mythology, and Hindu stories, men could do whatever they want, and women always had to prove their loyalty. My goal is to reverse this. I can write fiction, but I won’t write lies anymore.
I will be waiting at the green stage all day for music to my ears.
Ben Bonkoske 