Love that sucked all the juices, all the strength, so much so that the skin around his brittle bones began to crack and peel like snake scales. He looked more like a reptile than a man. A sharp face without a hint of blush, heavy eyelids and large eyebrows, sunken eyes and pale, bloodless lips. Passersby recoil, but he only lights a cigarette, realizing that everything going on inside him is visible to the naked eye.

Just like always. You slamming doors, screams, objects flying around the house, anger, uncontrollable despair and bitter sadness.

Everything happens again.

You love each other again, probably more than Lennon loved Yoko, more than the stars love to fall to earth. And you always keep making jokes about David getting a star in his eye — So that's why you're such a messed up! Funny wrinkles appear on your face, surprising a slightly dumbfounded bowie who is slightly taken aback by such a statement.

But everything is cyclical, and so are you. You go on, try, love, kiss, and promise, promise, promise but always come back — that's the rule of the circle. And it seems to be the circle of hell. For it brings unbearable suffering, that horrible, gut-eating devastation after every word that is thrown. This circle is a circus arena. This circle is the disk of the cold moon. This circle is the ring on your finger.

This circle is the noose around your neck.

Sooner or later, in a day, in a hundred years, all circles will open. The magnificent in apples will break free to the horror of all circus performers. The moon will be extinguished when the clear sun rises. The gold will darken on the dead man's finger. The cord will grind itself.

“It's not love, you and i just need someone to make us feel good,” He takes another drag on the cigarette smoke and bows his head, like a butterfly realizing it’s suffocating demise. after all, the air is about to run out.

And the circles? The circles will never run out.