The more I plan, the more I rethink not to indulge. When I discovered an archived side of me, I now can juxtapose my imperfectly developed and antiquated past with the current way of dissolving life. I followed an inner brutal culture of stabbing silence deep inside my heart. Now I do discriminate emotions as I do not want to get occupied unnecessarily, it costs a lot; a heavy, bulky life. But whenever I step against my plans, I indulge every time to feel your lips which reminds me of the pink azure consummately overlapped by the careless fog, the moisture that I saw on your lips were like the sudden November rain, as if it secretly wants me to come closer till our breath meets. Why should I not look into your profound eyes, to your nervous but calm iris? Wilderness exists but I do not indulge, as my love you're not sure about me.
Should I wait for you till apocalypse? Or should I leave you now and meet you for the last time before apocalypse? Our story would revolve and would knock to each lover's heart and you'll be remembered. I'd decorate you in such a way that generation would rename era.