He’s like the bittersweet melody of olden days, the sound of which gives me the power to hear bad music blaring in my ears all day long.

He’s like that sniff of cognac that allows me to walk through a morgue and not turn the place into a museum that studies fine vomit.

He’s the swig of whisky that burns a hole in my throat yet leaves a comforting feeling behind, a feeling of warmth and contentment.

He’s the cigarette that I know I will get addicted to, yet I cannot have enough of.

He’s the wind on a lonely night at the beach, that ruffles my hair up and makes me feel happy about the world – ready to face the same world in the morning because the memory of the smell of rhododendrons  that the wind carried is enough to carry me through another day.

He’s the heroin without which I cannot face the world – a little hit each day creates a collage of moments and memories that builds up a small screen between people and me, allowing me to go through the day without feeling empty at the end.

He’s the magic that can make me see a sunny day as bright and a rainy night as depressing, although I hate too much sunlight and can’t get enough of rain.

He’s the rose that protects me of the thorns inside myself – I have both the beauty and the beast inside me, it is he who makes me remember the former.

He’s all that is good, wise and beautiful in me, my flowers and bees and stream. Yet he is the destructive wind, the fire of passion, the all-consuming thirst and the whirlwind that rips my whole world apart.

He is me, I am him.

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