Not so long ago, perhaps a year or two, yeah maybe two years ago. I induced myself to a life of pure words, in some little lost web site, we became a community, it was the four of us. Each unbearably different yet bounded closely, what did we do? we talked, we talked and talked and talked, more like wrote, typed, we created philosophies, revolutions, poetry, songs, friends, alliances and traumas, but over all we created love and a love sickness now stuck.
It was real and yet it wasn't, none of us have seen each others faces...
It was a community of strangers, perhaps its time to really record it, isn't it?
Maybe write a huge novel all about it.
Sounds neat
For the moment all I've got is
It was love shooting off in every directions, aiming nowhere specifically, crashing injuries and repeating echoes, making waves of ideals, feeding them all. Wounds did not cauterize, everything was a spark, an army of hearts.
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