A love letter for the future.
Love binds us together, but warmth becomes a chain, control becomes torture, attention becomes surveillance, care becomes imprisonment, calls become curses and rules become excuses. I can't love you anymore, but I have to pry the mountains and fill the ocean, and I'm going to go to you again. My future. I won't give up. I'll meet you.
My love.
How do we go?
Weaseling history, once blurred impressions and moving expectations have become old and dull, and I have been printed in your boring picture, and our vows have become dogma, low-pitched adhesion, orderly execution, in order to make you feel better, and in order to cope with the job, any grain of sand in your eyes will become a Big Bang.
And We raced to your abode in madness, and the red flashes and flashes were like a beating of my heart. I was never lost in the night's fall, and the lanterns of neon bent down low, and the sirens on the bridge rang. I lost everything and I couldn't lose you. I swear to the sun, I shouted at the reflections of the glass curtain wall, I spit in the silent dark stream, and I'm in the middle of my heart.
That wonderful image will always be flashed, the curtain lifted, the electricity flowing from here to there, and the breath broken. The teeth fell to the roof, the skin infiltrated the carpet cracks, and the black vomit squeezed out the dawn. Greed is conflated with sticky alcohol, and only if you can tear me apart will the void be full and strong and fragile. Discarded armor strikes the sound of a bell, and the tremors of heart and heart calm me.
I'm on your way.
We've never been on a road, but when my eyes fall into your eyes, my heart shakes on the wire. Butterfly wings stunned my direction, and I couldn't stop trying to jump into the flames, jump into the abyss and hear a echo from the deep sea. I pretended to walk straight, raised my head on purpose, put my eyes away, forget you existed, and cold windows were always crushed by stone. Showing a shy smile with my humbleness. I put my head in a hot iron sheet and reminded the breakfast shop at three o'clock not to forget sugar.
It's good that you've wasted a lot of time to put me on a bed that belongs to me. It's a dream, a dream, a lie, a fantasy, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream, a dream that meets you, a trap, and becomes you, from beginning to end.
But life crushes me, with real pressure coming up, and walking out is always an easy and easy road, pretending to be like never before, and throwing my hat off in the rain and tripping my shoelace. I can't do it anymore, my heart comes out of the chest, my stomach is ingested, the ceiling crushes the spinal column into pieces, and I'm brainwashing myself with little books. You no longer need me, not needing me, but being forced to leave, to give up, to hold all the darkness in your chest, to devour all your desires, to take my vision as a delusion, to take me as a traitor, and to take my words back again.
You're not confident.
I don't want to, I don't want to, I want to. You can't go down, or you can't go down. Hatred has become the driving force, the strongest of faith, the most stubborn stone and the most secure foundation, locking everything once again in a world that does not collapse. I have become my most painful presence, and it has erupted once again after a deliberate neglect. Scattered magma melted the ridge, my forehead swollen out of a bag, and it broke everything so badly that the heart could slow down, slow down, and the blood would stop running backwards.
I can't forget, it's like being unable to control a moment when my body is suddenly shaking, the eyebrows are picked up, the mouth is turned down, the chicken skin is suddenly like a stringed light bulb, and I know it will come. She left just as she was coming, as she was coming, just as she had left, and we always knew that the world had changed.
A sudden attack, like a lightning that blows up a black and silent space, where I am full of cracks, and where the light does not stop, so that the breath can continue, life can live, and I am out of the loop by passing through it. Wait, wait, wait, wait. And while I hold my breath occasionally, I may catch her moving. Yes, she is, and I am.
A love letter to the future is written by you, so do not slip away quietly again. This time, the next time, the next time, the spark will not stop, and I will not fall in love with you, neither will I be separated from you, but I have created the only one, and I have never been separated from you, as I will see you again. I love you, the only, eternal, transient, sacred, indestructible, yours, mine, ours.
Love is the smallest unit of the community, and each of our new trusts has been built. It can give us unlimited power, but it can equally easily destroy our already fragile sense of security. But even more intense storms will nourish us, and let us once again grow new buds, new branches, new flowers and new fruits.
Theatrical is the first step in re-establishing relationships, and we're going up to May again in a fictional framework. The Dousa raft, the waves will once again beat the small, vulnerable boat, forcing us to find a way to survive, and miracles will come at unexpected times.
No more running away, no more avoiding the opportunity to slip away, and the crutches on which they depend will continue to be broken during the earthquake. Only by giving strong muscles to weak calves in one of the theatre ' s rehabilitation trainings can we sail in distress.
The "Drama of Love" has started five times, and the sixth one will start on Friday, November 19, if you want to feel connected, or if you simply want to experience a psycho-feed, you can ask the pilot to sign up in Beijing.
Click on the top picture to learn more about Love Theatre.