The Letter

This morning I found a piece of paper that contained a letter. I do not know whether it is adressed or not to someone but I decided to keep it with me. I read it. Anger covered all of his/her body I guess.


'I'm losing control. I'm falling over the edge. (You can notice through the not yet written texts.).
You're fucking my mind. You're fucking all the poetry in me. What the hell do you expect? And I? What (scottish pronuncitation with some kind of emphasis /xo:t/) the hell do I expect from all this shit? Because I forgot to tell you: I-have-no-time-to-play. I just need WARM. I need a hug. Would you mind hugging me or do I have to follow this stupid game 'till the day you consider? You made me start (my) the blog again. You made me start myself writing this shit sheet with your on going madness. Mad. Mad for you. Mad for her, for you. For me. For her. Her. Her. Her. And let me tell you one thing "And the SEX, and the drugs, and the complications." I'm not playing your game anymore. Not playing your game. Damn!'


This is how the letter ends. What's inside brackets was crossed out and what's written below these lines, was totally disorganized.


['I wasn't playing. I never meant to play with you.
By the way, I'd hate November unless it gave me a good song or a poem.
I hate 4ths too.
You're making me mad. Not so like me.
Disappointed?
1780-1830 Romantic Period.']


Some student may lost this letter this morning on the second floor. I hope he/she's in a better mood.