What makes it so hard for me to dismiss "intelligent design" as not worthy of a level of hypothesis is my prejudice that a designer requires a brain.

Maybe talking to ourselves is not really trying to keep ourselves company, but trying to understand the silence, channel someone else's memory and presence from a distance.

Maybe talking to ourselves isn't a sign of insanity, but of sanity.

"How can you promise something and just shake it off?" asked the heart.

The clouds, the storm, are unique to me -
They only exist in my head;
I have become a natural disaster -
I am a living tempest.

As the rain spells out
your name in stutters,
my nerve endings fray
like unspun silk in a storm,
fine and raw.

The night bus to your dreams
is not in service
and I remember
how we were with
poetry in our veins
and love on lips.

There's just something so bittersweet about piano melodies and poetry that oozes sadness and lost memories.

A writer not only writes what the writer feels but the writer can also feel what the writer writes

Oh well haha , life goes on.

Searching for someone to be the Light in my darkness...