spots (part two)

it has been cold, rainy and overall deeply creamy, deeply Gothic.
I sometimes wounder, if it really is the weather, or merely the self inflicted layer of gloom atop my sight?
as I said, in my state of denial I kept searching for answers, as one would do when the little clifs benith their feet get crulely swept away.
eddi`s room was round, not cubical as most rooms are, but round, as a result it gave a slight feel of, it being vast.
I interd it after haveing that conversaition with mrs solisky, and started looking around the walls, I sat on the bed, I felt the ripped, worn out fabric of his desck chair, I stared at the wall, coverd with papers, goals, dreams, qoutes, to do lists.
it didnot exactly look like a sucidal man`s wall, or maybe thats exactly what it looked like.
I honestly dont know.
----------------------------------
I sit on the bench , legs crossed, glasses on, sniffing my nose, as it turns flushed red, the news paper rough against my freezing fingertips.
I am not exactly proud of what I do, how I sneak in, how I creep in, how I have made the very issance of my life: the unseen thoughts of a beautiful, 5'5ft 120lbs, 22 year old girl.
she stratches her legs threw the gate, and I am driven by mere impulses, by the chance of temoprary, intoxicaited happines, caused by the very look of her, I chase and I chase and I stare, gush , glance, peek.
from the farthes distance possible, but the closest one needed. just close enough for the air that touches her to touch me, befor it gets lost in the dump and the colliding figurs of new york sitisants.
she gets on the subway as she useually dose, today she waers a light fabriced dress, and white sneakker.
oh, dear.
 there was a time when I saw my self. a time where I belived I could be original, I could be briliant, I could be bulit above and among pure greatness.
but what time dose to me is, it only opens my eyes to the little any of us could actualy be.
and my paintings are nothing, their paintings are nothing. these people sickend my very core. eddi knew a while ago that art was byond dead, the only thing left for us were the pretty little sketches in comic books.
and perhaps, unevirsialy this is not much of a crises, but to me as to most artists, we lose the connictive tissue that binds our sincies.
because: for people as us, we are, and since bearth made, for the joys and glories of brush strockes.
so now, and in a strange twisted way, I suppose, this is my way of explaining the hainase acts I do, the peeking and chasing and envading.
because as instinictive beings we almost, subconsiasly seek out serviavle, from feeding to sleeping, to mating, and last but deffinatly not least, bit of joy, bits of happiness.
and as I lost eddi, as I lost art, as I lost the remaning scraches of hope, my instinct is, and no matter how wrong: follow her.
auther note:
there will be a part three, and no, the spelling hasnt been chicked, once I finish part three I`l publish the three of them as whole.