You anger, I bye.

am I a bad jew if I keep pesach because I want to, not just doing it feeling like I have to but really not wanting to?

I have a way.
You have a way.
Your way is "right".
My way is "right".
But your way is far away from my way.
I say, "the only right way is our way,
not entirely yours or entirely mine,
but a little yours, and a little mine:
a lot ours."
You say "ok" and do entirely your way.
I say and do a little my way.
You anger. I anger.
I say "I'll do a little your way, if you do
a little my way." You say, "ok,
but you first." I do, you don't do.
I anger. You anger.
I say "now you first".
You anger. I anger.
I say "let us together decide what to do,
and do together." You say
"uh, sure, us, together",
ignore me and do entirely your way.
I anger, you anger.

It's funny how when I want to do what you want but say that that's what I want to do before you say it, you say you don't want to do that...then when I say what I want to do, you say I'm wierd; then I ask you what you want to do and I get no response, no answer. And then you anger and complain that we never do anything.

You'd rather I didn't speak. I'd rather I didn't speak.
You like to speak. I like you to speak.
I'd like us to do together, and what we want to do.
You only do what you want, and if I won't follow you,
you don't care. You anger. I cry.
I anger. You bye.

I'm Here

"True Love never dies;" he said, "find me, and you will understand..."

"You will always be in my heart," he thought, "and the heart doesn't know how to forget."

One day, it will strike you, and you will see: seek and you shall find...

All Scars

Funnies

"To Margot's credit it must be admitted that she did try her utmost to remain quite faithful to him. But no matter how tender and thoughtful he was in his love-making, she knew, all along, that for her it would always be love minus something, whereas the least touch of her first lover had always been a sample of everything. Unfortunately a young Austrian who was the best dancer in Solfi, and a crack ping-pong player to boot, somehow resembled the man Miller; there was something about his strong knuckles, his keen sardonic eyes, which kept reminding her of things she would have preferred to forget."

'Qui se pelotent dans tous les coins' are in constant need of lozengers. It's the throat that hurts, in the end, always, ones soul.