There should be a system in place. Although systems aren’t pretty in general, I suppose a crumbly, haphazard, dreamy structure is highly desirable. The kind that doesn’t let its dreamers fade into oblivion or stay awake at night, absolutely petrified.

I suppose we should be allowed to put our dreams in tiny jars. And just so that we’re clear, we could have have fairy lights draped around them.

Routines don’t make sense. Rules don’t make sense. Heartbreak doesn’t make sense.

Perhaps we should be able to erase the hurt aggressively with the tips of our fingers, stubbornly wiping out every last trace of the last time we cried in silence.

Travelling is oxygen. Oxygen is necessary. It is scary. We sit in cubicles every day for the rest of our lives, seeking money and emptiness in equal measure with such aches in our heavy hearts.

There should be a system in place. Not predictable. Just drifting in the clouds.