there are the times when I think the unutterable.

it isn't as though there is something special in these
draft-thoughts where I wish you dead, for instance
say raped. but rapid-fire-dreams
accumulate at an alarming rate. I dare not tell
about these to anyone; even admitting them to myself
requires considerable effort. but little by little
they burst from subconscience. maybe it's not that bad?
I should probably try saying that out loud
"
I want you dead"
no, on the other hand that's too trite. I should invent a
method
that will, repeated every night
not bore myself to death. how do I do that?
now, this is actually an interesting question to think
about.
but let's, for a start, try to visualize the way I'd kill
you-
it should, of course, be gruesome beyond every extent
possible to imagine. with this in mind
I started to investigate. the newspapers'
descriptions at first seemed good, but soon began
repeating one another. "what hypocrites
are those journalists," I thought after reading
a set of declarations about the shock
they have, supposedly, experienced after each similar
murder (daily, for many years, consecutively).
forensic reports were not much better. very technical
and detailed, however completely missing the point
or barely touching it in the best case. "maybe there is no
point"
I thought, unsatisfied. "after all
there's nobody who could tell about it"
but still, I wanted you dead (after some futile attempts I
ceased attempting explaining this to myself)
and so, I continued to contemplate the idea
column by column.

"
I want you dead" I wrote. the statement shaped the desire
and each time, repeated, the phrase was becoming easier to
say
so I repeated it every night - I made a point of this
I would repeat that phrase a thousand times per night
and it was "perfectly alright"
I told myself. the world continued not to care
)
I have always been amazed at this world's capacity).

and so nights changing one another went
until one time I somehow have forgotten
to say my mantra. day went after day
and papers with those words lay scattered,
across my room without being uttered.
I thought I stopped to care
I thought I stopped to care about you.

I was wrong

as wrong as one could possibly be wrong.

and so, having found that paper stuck in some far corner
I contemplated the idea once again. it now seemed much more
complex than I had thought
much, much more complex

cause mere physical murder will not do, of course
this one must be much more utter and thorough

I want you to perish. I want you to leave no trace, be
erased
I want to force the world disremember you
as though you had never existed.
)
I have always loved impossible goals)

but to kill you this way I must know you, know everything
there is to know
about you. I must be you and I must love you
I must die myself in a sort of way to do this.

or so I have concluded
and therefore tried to learn whatever there was to learn

and that took years
and years

and after some years I thought I was wiser (but where were
you?)
I thought I had grown and got over you (where were you?)

"
it isn't unlike what I wanted," I thought
one smile of yours (intended, of course, not for me)
was more than enough to cut those thoughts short.

"
it was a casual encounter," I wrote "but this world
"
is too small to pretend you're not there-- so
there must exist some sort of solution."

but what is this strange force that makes me go on? what
can I do now?

nothing.
nothing
nothing at all.

"
this universe," I wrote, "is stronger than I am."

".I give up