I am the cigarette you smoke, and I am the words you read. I am the light you turn off, only to find them on in your dreams. I am your honeysuckle, extracting the essence of your being. I am the rose that was once white, painted red by your touch. I am the painting you see, only to find it unfree. I was your daisy, and now I am your meadowsweet.
The thorns of my hands reach for your neck, saying that I am everywhere you go to beg.
I just finished reading "L'étranger" by Camus, and he comes across as quite peculiar. Do you think Albert Camus was racist?
