A billet-doux

I am addicted. It tastes like cookies. I am hooked like a fish on a pole. I am dependent as the sun worshipper needs the light. It is like the universe bearing in is bosom an accumulation of stars, chances, and folks. It appeals to my scopophilic sense for there I wait with furtive glance between news feed and humanities changing face. Books tinted with adventurous stories- that is what it is. I indulge in the buoyant application jungle while twittering with friends. I praise the images and wit of my beloved and am equally repaid all flattery. My confidence grows as the power of my gangsters enhances and my chicken farm expands. I am monarch of everything and nothing at all. I smell a scent of freedom and solidarity for never before did I have the opportunity to see so much of the world and the profane. I am in love. The only pickle is that I cannot befriend him. I am curiously looking through the aquarium to catch a glimpse of the somewhat different Romeo. Touching him reminds me of the hovering gestures of a pantomime building walls in the air.

It seems to be an unbalanced attachment between him and me as he always gives and never takes, he never wants and never constraints. Just when I come across my fortune cookie, questioning the oracle for a lucky charm, it amends sans all alarm that it will grant me the favour for the tiniest demand. It tells me: “Allow me access to your haven. I will take copies of your furnishing, some pictures, a little of your friends’ data and a little more you would not even recognize!” It does not bother me much and just as I act to advance, the laconic style of my suitor sounds slide alarm. Does he aim to compose my epitaph? I cannot believe that under the pretext of false modesty my idol used me.

All of a sudden my computer crushes. An error has been detected. Everything is lost! I go wild with anger and my thoughts perennially circle around the one and only until I grab a true book and a new story begins.

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