hit

I told her I am sorry he was dead.
She smiled and said: thank you for your help.
She struck me with her placidity.

irony

life is so ironic. let me rephrase that. there is nothing more ironic than life itself. I saw her every day for a month, and we only talked on the night she was leaving. don't tell me that irony is not prevailing. my god. is there a god after all. if so, where was he? is this what every day should be about? was she the one to satisfy me? or are we never satisfied? we all want to be free.