These are my drunken nights where I start fist fights versus future doubts and marvel at my inability to hit anything. These are the nights where I stretch my muscles in hope of finding some sort of strength. Instead I find myself shipwrecked and seasick with no hope of escape. I will send you a message in a bottle if you promise me that you will at least respond. If I can’t have your voice I will have your words falling on my head like raindrops or some other victim of gravity that insists on falling. When will I meet something that can hold itself up in the face of overwhelming pressure. It might give me a little hope that I can load inside a gun like bullets and shoot myself in the chest so I can have wound in the place where my empty heart used to be.