That was sordid. Like yawning, an exhaustion. I told you a clean truth before you started coughing up unattended to phlegm. As you sighed your goodbye, entirely not understanding, I couldn’t even see your face in the dark. You could have been anyone, and you have been many times before. You like a cheap Yoko and me a clumsy Lennon, you left and left me to my thoughts. I thought of Merlin, and how I was painted with the same colours but not by the same hand. If Fate gives me no other purpose, then what is this emptiness for?