There Is No Word For The Recipient

You Have To Trust The Words. They Do Not Create Anything More Than Themselves.

I Hate The Way You Talk To Me, And The Way You Cut Your Hair. I Hate The Way You Drive My Car. I Hate It When You Stare. I Hate Your Big Dumb Combat Boots, And The Way You Read My Mind. I Hate You So Much It Makes Me Sick; It Even Makes Me Rhyme. I Hate It, I Hate The Way You're Always Right. I Hate It When You Lie. I Hate It When You Make Me Laugh, Even Worse When You Make Me Cry. I Hate It When You're Not Around, And The Fact That You Didn't Call. But Mostly I Hate The Way I Don't Hate You. Not Even Close, Not Even A Little Bit, Not Even At All.

I Barely Notice Colors Unless I Taste Them. Not The Yellows Or The Greens. I Taste The Deeper Blues. The Darker Reds.

There Is The Sudden. There Is The Eventual. And In Between, There Is The Living.

Tiny: But There Is The Word, This Word Phil Wrayson Taught Me Once: Weltschmerz. It's The Depression You Feel When The World As It Is Does Not Line Up With The World As You Think It Should Be. I Live In A Big Goddamned Weltzschermz Ocean, You Know? And So Do You.