Arafat

It was eleven. I woke up late on Sunday because I think the Mountainous Works on my table in the office can be put aside to give way for me to a little rest on weekend. It's Sunday and it supposed to be a lazy day. I mean, it is the day where you can just lay flat on your bed, looking at the ceiling, curling side to side and hugging a huge maroon bolster, sniffing the faint scent of zesty air freshener, and delve into thoughts and memories you have left behind.

The thing with Sunday and I is, I couldn't lay flat long enough to satisfy my insufficient rest. The Mountainous Works on my table have to be attended, and due dates are numbers with slashes of scary shits.

I bloody need my bleeding rest.

No you can't. Now go to work.

I woke up, went into the bathroom. The floor was coated with thick grime, the sink was a mess. Got out from the bathroom, walked to the store at the back, picked a blue storage box and opened it up. I rummaged through bottles of designers perfumes and shampoos, and I found your pictures. Smiling on the bed, screaming I Am Happy If We Could Live Together. Or was it the thought I made just to soothe my crippling emotion?

I guess I miss you too much.

Always wanting you.

Love,
ZA

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