Untitled #6

And the broken man sat down at a table and hung his head in his hands.
His silence is stained with lachrymose. The sun, to him, is a stranger.

He goes to his familiar room. The room filled with books, and he tears out the pages, word by word.
The moon, to him, is a stranger.

It's almost like forgetting the name of your favourite book. Your favourite song.
It used to be so easy, but now you can't remember.

And the man at the table next to an open window feels the chill from the icy moon. She, to him, is a stranger. But like the name of your favourite book.

And the broken man shuts the window. He goes back into the familiar room and puts the shattered books back into their places.

And the broken man became reacquainted with the moon.