Perfection

"It's pathetic how we can't live with the things we can't understand, how we need everything labelled and explained. Even if it's for sure unexplainable. Even God."

that's what my friend Chuck says.
I like it.
But he's not my friend, I'm getting to know him through what he writes
which is more than I can say for many people I know anyway.

Today I waited for hours.
Today I read for hours.
It was me and this brick of paper full of words, 
I was afraid to lose them.
I was wondering: Can words get lost just like me?

I chewed them, chocked on them.

Felt like laughing, crying, running, screaming.

I felt disapponted, helpless.

And I thought how can this be?
This ain't real, these people hiding between  layer of paper don't even exist.
I could tear pages, burn this mix of ink and paper.

but somehow I can't stop thinking about it.

I'm trapped, I'm hanging between letters and feelings and concepts and  a web of tasteful reinvented realities.

Living in a parallel word where people with big car and small brains don't count
where I don't have to make sense of a city that makes me sick and steal each and every of my breath
and fill my lungs with tasteless poison

People are talking somewhere next to me, I see them them passing by. 

But they are so far and I'm so glad.

"Perfection" isn't the right word, but is the first word that comes to mind.