the only way to get your love is to not love you at all. who owns the windows in the corridors of inns and hostels? who stands by them feeling at home, comfortable, and warm? and who takes the responsibility of opening them when cool wind blows and shutting them when it rains. you see? no one. I can't love you while I stay in an inn and while my search for a home is all that keeps me up at night. we are back in the middle ages, I am traveling by foot, and my horse is stolen. I've escaped pirates and survived wars and there is peace nowhere. we need an industrial revolution and a mini-renaissance to be united. It's an ancient dystopia. The fruits are poisoned and the enemy is at the door. the pens are spies, I cant send you letters anymore. Your eyes won't see words written by my hands, and your arms won't be able to hold me anymore. it's a long way to go, never-ending, like the number line in mathematics.