Another set of Amour/Armour

I keep dreaming of spaces. rooms, houses. unknown cities. For days now.

Keep writing of the abstract, the logos, renewal without a clearly divisible path... or a link back to logic. the centre does not hold...
My brain is worn out. I think I seek escape into foreign recesses of my mind.
Or I am trapped in an ontological web of Calvino's Oulipo...

The problem could explicitly be a case of deferment of Being. Solution? make something new. I shall build a home I can live in. Lessen the journey. All I need is a lot of money. maybe I can write a meta-fictional narrative of this nonsense.

Too many doors. Possibilities? Distractions?

While I'm here... does anyone believe in love anymore? Or am I just a silly romantic yet holding out for the real thing? hmm.