The night and the moon are lovers

I don't know why I can't write. There could be more than one reason. For example, I do not feel my heart as full as it used to be.

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It doesn't rise, it doesn't, it doesn't call, it doesn't flow. She's not even dripping. I feel quiet, shrunken, closed, speechless, wounded. Another reason is that I can focus on health problems these days.

Parkinson's, the drug's progressing to the upper limit. Hepatitis is trying to seize my awakened lung. I haven't even been in a couple of little things.

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It's her last day. It's the last day of life for me every day. Tasteless, saltless, colorless, breathless, orphaned every day, I think the last day. What's the need for the sun to rise to a new day for me? After I couldn't melt the ice mountains inside of me.

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