Love is such a thing

I need a doctor. Honestly, a psychiatrist. Not a great teacher. He's got a life coach to guide. I need a friend who'il listen to me, understand me.

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There's someone like that, but because he's the source of my troubles, he's not. It's not like him. If it was another topic, I would tell him, listen and guide him. He always showed me the right, most appropriate way. When I followed his advice, I was never mistaken, I wasn't.

But this time I must find another way. If I say disease, obsession, obsession. No, it's love. Love is such a thing. I think about him day and night. I cry very often. Most of the time, no reason. Sometimes a little bird looking for food on the pavement, or a yellowing leaf, falling off the branch and falling to the ground.

Sometimes in the hospital corridor, a desperate aunt's desperate looks or his mother didn't take what he wanted, with the crying of the boy coming out of the market. On one occasion when I was talking to my mother on the phone or when I met a poppy. When I look at my motorcycle, when Besiktas is defeated, my face bends over, my eyes are floating, bloody, thin, thin.

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You say Yar. He has to wet, weep, he has to say, he has to print. When it is raw, it must be cooked, or not. You say Yar. He must be like him.

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