Suffering's an universal plague to the people of regret. They beg─On their knees with lips of pride, trying to preserve some of their dignity as if they're not all the same─sad art pieces with no pretty tears that'll be ready to be observed by others who're desensitized as they're whores, not understanding an inch of feeling that could be conveyed through touch or surrounding, just knowing how to open their legs so their partners of night's stars can paint their naughtiest desires on their thighs─It's fine, it's normal for a girl like you. Disconnected.

Or so I think. I've been looking at you from the bottom of the rows in this classroom─and you never change. Teeth, clean as if you drank bleach; necklaces that could become topics of books with how much you have that're simply just beaded, simple in solid colors; eyes that have a way with scanning a canvas, deadly as it is articulate with it's own complex language. You haven't looked down once, I took note─most of the future disappointments, or possible masters of our futures are busy skimming through their phones as they wait for the teacher's sunflower dangled earrings to jingle in their ears, as well as her sheep-skin heels that'll be taken off with class's course but you've been criticizing, abusing your projects with your eyes. I'm sure if it had a life, it would cry by how degrading you look at it; Fucking garbage, you sigh as move it from your eyes, replacing it with another artwork of yours.

It's sad, I wonder how many people you've done that to. In my mind, I've imagined you as a ruthless aspiring artist, no longer able to see the pink shades with the pick of your brush─only the grays. I've seen the way you run your thumb against your lips, quickly and not wasting a moment to give everyone a show with their perverted minds / I've seen how you would take sips of your water, always room-temperature and never ice-cold as most would want it / I've seen the hickeys' that run against your skin, and you don't try to hide or flaunt such bruises that're clearly from the guy who's always around you; Suna, I think.

I like that. I would like to capture such oddness on my scrolls; already filled with magnificent women, and men but not as beautiful as you are. I would love to know each crease and curve of your body. Tell me about your first fall from grace, on a bicycle or one's lips. I'd listen, whether it be theories or short stories from a life that'll become irrelevant with the cold-heart of time, please, tell me. My hands are tied, on the edge of the bed with no sight! I bet that would catch your filthy fucking attention, break me like a lover's leave, my fellow artist.

It was Tuesday, I like Tuesdays. They aren't odd, but they aren't what first comes to mind like a Monday or a Friday. They're perfect, solacing like the smell of professor's coffee as she wears hat smile on her face, fitting for a person like herself; expressive, wildly alarming with nature's cooing colors of freedom and peace, but that doesn't matter / I watch you paint on the surface, not following the wave of movement like the rest of the classroom who's eager for their semesters to end, but you look like you want more time for each day, month, year, decade and century. I want to make a joke to you, completely out of character but I'd rather not disturb you but that doesn't work─the teacher assigns us to be each other's partners in sculpture work, preparing the woman of the group to sculpt the masculine figure which is disappointing; I wanted to feel my hands against your skin, see if you're truly a moth-eaten matter that migrates between classes. So after being directed into duos, you've met me before leaving the class, giving me your number with no light in your eyes; it's dark, pitch black as the rivers in wars, filled with countless of fluids, but mainly the blood of lost souls.

"I'm Keiji Akaashi", I stick out my hand like the good boy I am─not being too forward, not being too shy because butterflies are stuck in my silkworm hair as stardust comes off my eyelashes; a boy like me gets people to melt into my facade, savoring my fraud as I'm in the mist of publicity which doesn't work for you, all you did was talk once we exchanged our socials─it entices me, deprive me more: "Oh, by the way, you can call me B."