# Probabilities

Inside the future you’re looking at, if you look so closely,
You’ll just realize it so well you’ll want to break it down -That you can’t hold a monopoly.

Percentage – School Food Punishment

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Old boy, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you, I was like, in nowhere, miles and miles away from you at the time you cried and said all those things that I don’t know.

Yet.

Old boy, if I could make you a question, like what does life mean to you, what would be your answer? You know, I’ve been thinking that the probability of a good answer is near to a 3 percent, probably. You decide what I’m meaning when I say good answer, though. And your answer, of course.

But if I could ask you just one question, I wouldn’t waste it on that superficial one. I would ask what’s your favorite color, summer over winter?, or what is your cardiac frequency, those kind of important questions. Real questions. Sustancial, like water or something.

Ah, old boy, how is your face now? I mean, it is not like I don’t know you, but I’ve been thinking that in my eyes you seem to have a ridiculous amount of haze upon your face lately and I want to say I’m sorry for no reason, and run and take your hand as I say it again and again until the whole phrase loses its meaning and we fall inside a vortex of nothing where we finally (finally, finally) can see each other’s face.

But, old little boy, I coudn’t be there when you said those words. Or when you desperately cried. Or when you did nothing of those things.

If I could call your name, I think it would start with F, M or S. FMS, where are you now? It’s not a rhetoric question, you see; if I could call your name, would your asnwer mine by the way (which could start either with  N, A, S; NAS)? I think, I usually think and overthink about that, but nothing seems to come up, like if there’s no possible reason for an unlikely asnwer.

Or an answer that doesn’t exist at all, which depress me, and then I want to punch your dear and blur face until you cry my name and beg for forgiveness that don’t have any right to give.

Old boy FMS, here, NAS calling you. Has it been fun? Life, I mean. Or the chocolates I never sent, the call I never made, the words I never thought. A negative answer is near to a 100 percent, I pressume, but, old boy, old little boy, I’m realizing something.

Something that’s awful and sort of hurts.

I know, I couldn’t be there when all those things I don’t know happened to you; but, but, ah, old little boy, you definitely maybe won’t be here at all when I cry, and say all those words you’ll never know because good probabilities are always so far from our reach, it even gives you the impression that we’ve never met, actually (could it be true, I wonder).

As if was me, indeed, who has a ridiculous amount of haze upon its unknow face and you who has to say “I’m sorry and I’m sorry” for no reason until you fall into a vortex where you see anyone’s face, and then, and so then… then nothing, I guess, old little boy,  because you’re already walking over the asphalt, smiling like a fool as you look at the bright sky flashing with another random future for you with other questions and other answers.

Crita – 15/8/2012