Possible Heart

Let’s name it a blatant romantification.

‘It must be the human revolution of prospect’ she thought. ‘A revulsion back to the sinistry of the corrupt clockwork’. She pointed and said: ‘Isn’t that destined to erupt? Just as, you should never simplify me to ‘love’, just as, you in this textual case shouldn’t simplify me to a category, I bet you do’. She pointed at you with a stick in the backward mirror and whispered. ‘Forlorn magic isn’t here for a purpose you see, in my world the ‘I’ has a need. Your eye has nothing to do with that, only you.’
Mirror answered: ‘It’s all about that desperation to feel something in this bubble of history. It’s about this western civilization and the reflection of ‘you’. I don’t judge the ‘I’ with you as the base. I just touch a little bit, like the anthropologist does on the desolate island…’
‘Oh, slow down there Doctor Livingstone’, she murmured, and raised her voice: ‘Nothing is as clear-cut as that touch of yours and it’s not necessarily that everyone will buy your words straight ahead. But I do agree with you, I’m just trying to make a point and felt for a twist on our ‘I’ to ‘I’ conversation here.
Mirror ended: ‘Indeed my eruption. I do love, more than gently to some occasion, but I would never anagram me to novel I as morning dew’

‘Rome is burning,’ he said, as he poured himself another drink. ‘Yet here I am, knee-deep in a river of pussy.’ ‘Here it comes,’ she thought, ‘another self-indulgent, whiskey-soaked diatribe about how fucking great everything was in the past… and how all us poor souls born too late to see the Stones at wherever or snort the good coke like they had at studio 54, well, we had all just missed out on practically everything worth living for.’ And the worst part was, she agreed with him.
‘Here we are,’ she thought, ‘at the very edge of the world, the very edge of western civilization, and all of us are so desperate to feel something, anything, that we keep falling into each other and fucking our way towards the end of days.’