bydayiamnothingandbynightiami

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

Indefinite space, which, by co-substance night, In one black mystery two void mysteries blends; The stray stars, whose innumerable light Repeats one mystery till conjecture ends; The stream of time, known by birth-bursting bubbles; The gulf of silence, empty even of nought; Thought's high-walled maze, which the outed owner troubles Because the string's lost and the plan forgot: When I think on this and that here I stand, The thinker of these thoughts, emptily wise, Holding up to my thinking my thing-hand And looking at it with thought-alien eyes, The prayer of my wonder looketh past The universal darkness lone and vast.

Fernando Pessoa, Sonnet XVIII

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

Space. A long wait. No one comes. This shadow.

Give it what everyone gives: meanings that are somber, not full of wonder.

Space. Blazing silence. What is it that shadows give each other?

Alejandra Pizarnik

Lachrimæ tristes

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

Εγώ να σε δέρμα

εγώ να σε πόρτα

εγώ να σε παράθυρο

εσύ να με κόκαλο

εσύ να με ωκεανό

εσύ να με τόλμη

εσύ να με μετεωρίτη

Εγώ να σε χρυσό κλειδί

εγώ να σε εκπληκτική

εσύ να με παροξυσμό

Εσύ να με παροξυσμό

και να με παράδοξο

εγώ να σε κλειδοκύμβαλο

εσύ να με σιωπηλά

εσύ να με καθρέφτης

εγώ να σε ρολόι

Εσύ να με αντικατοπτρισμό

εσύ να με όαση

εσύ να με πουλί

εσύ να με έντομο

εσύ να με καταρράκτη

Εγώ να σε σελήνη

εσύ να με σύννεφο

εσύ να με πλημμυρίδα

Εγώ να σε διάφανη

εσύ να με ημίφως

εσύ να με ημιδιάφανο

εσύ να με άδειο πύργο

και να με λαβύρινθο

Εσύ να με παράλλαξη

και να με παραβολή

εσύ να με όρθιο

και πλαγιασμένο

εσύ να με πλάγιο

Εγώ να σε ισημερία

εγώ να σε ποιητή

εσύ να με χορό

εγώ να σε ιδιαίτερη

εσύ να με κάθετο

και πατάρι

Εσύ να με ορατό

εσύ να με σιλουέτα

εσύ να με άπειρα

εσύ να με αδιαίρετο

εσύ να με ειρωνεία

Εσύ να με εύθραυστο

εγώ να σε φλογερή

εγώ να σε φωνητικά

εσύ να με ιερογλυφικό

Εσύ να με διάστημα

εσύ να με καταρράχτη

εγώ να σε καταρράχτη

με τη σειρά μου αλλά εσύ

εσύ να με ρευστό

εσύ να με πεφταστέρι

εσύ να με ηφαιστειακό

εμείς να μας συντρίψιμοι

Εμείς να μας σκανδαλωδώς

μέρα και νύχτα

εμείς να μας ακόμα και σήμερα

εσύ να με εφαπτόμενο

εγώ να σε ομόκεντρη

Εσύ να με διαλυτό

εσύ να με αδιάλυτο

εσύ να με ασφυκτιώντας

και να με ελευθερώτρα

εσύ να με συντριπτική

Εσύ να με ίλιγγο

εσύ να με έκσταση

εσύ να με παθητικά

εσύ να με απόλυτα

εγώ να σε απούσα

εσύ να με παράλογο

Εγώ να σε ρουθούνι

εγώ να σε κόμη

εσύ να με στοιχειώνεις

εγώ να σε στήθος

εγώ προτομή το στήθος σου μετά να σε πρόσωπο

εγώ να σε μπλούζα

εσύ να με οσμή εσύ να με ίλιγγο

εσύ γλιστράς

εγώ να σε μπούτι εγώ να σε χαϊδεύω

εγώ να σε ριγώ

εσύ να με δρασκελίζεις

εσύ να με ανυπόφορο

εγώ να σε αμαζόνα

εγώ να σε λαιμό εγώ να σε κοιλιά

εγώ να σε φούστα

εγώ να σε ζαρτιέρα εγώ να σε κάλτσα εγώ να σε Μπαχ

ναι εγώ να σε Μπαχ για κλειδοκύμβαλο βυζί και φλάουτο

εγώ να σε τρέμουσα

εσύ να με γοητεύεις εσύ να μ’ απορροφάς

εγώ να σε διεκδικώ

εγώ να σε διακινδυνεύω εγώ να σε σκαρφαλώνω

εσύ να με αγγίζεις

εγώ να σε κολυμπώ

αλλά εσύ εσύ να με στροβιλίζεις

εσύ να με ελαφροαγγίζεις εσύ να με περιζώνεις

εσύ να με σάρκα πετσί δέρμα και δάγκωμα

εσύ να με μαύρο σλιπ

εσύ να με κόκκινες χορεύτριες

κι όταν εσύ δεν ψηλό τακούνι τις αισθήσεις μου

εσύ οι κροκόδειλοι

εσύ οι φώκιες εσύ τις μαγεύεις

εσύ να με σκεπάζεις

εγώ να σε ανακαλύπτω εγώ να σε επινοώ

κάποτε εσύ να παραδίνεσαι

εσύ να με υγρά χείλη

εγώ να σε απελευθερώνω εγώ να σε παραληρώ

εσύ να με παραληρείς και να με παθιάζεις

εγώ να σε ώμο εγώ να σε σπόνδυλο εγώ να σε αστράγαλο

εγώ να σε βλεφαρίδες και κόρες του ματιού

και αν εγώ δεν ωμοπλάτη πριν από τους πνεύμονές μου

ακόμα κι από απόσταση εσύ να με μασχάλες

εγώ να σε ανασαίνω

μέρα και νύχτα να σε ανασαίνω

εγώ να σε στόμα

εγώ να σε ουρανίσκο εγώ να σε δόντια εγώ να σε γρατζουνίζω

εγώ να σε αιδοίο εγώ να σε βλέφαρα

εγώ να σε ανάσα

εγώ να σε μηρό

εγώ να σε αίμα εγώ να σε λαιμό

εγώ να σε γάμπες εγώ να σε βεβα��ότητα

εγώ να σε μάγουλα εγώ να σε φλέβες

εγώ να σε χέρια

εγώ να σε ιδρώτα

εγώ να σε γλώσσα

εγώ να σε αυχένα

εγώ να σε ταξιδεύω

εγώ να σε σκιά εγώ να σε σώμα και να σε φάντασμα

εγώ να σε αμφιβληστροειδή μες στην ανάσα μου

εσύ να με ίρις

εγώ να σου γράφω

εσύ να με σκέφτεσαι

Beyond Romance

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.

Franz Kafka’s Letters to Milena

Arvo Pärt- Spiegel im Spiegel

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me?

But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries.

Clarice Lispector

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

To be sure, you are not familiar with that dungeon‑cell that was called the little‑ease in the Middle Ages. In general, one was forgotten there for life. That cell was distinguished from others by ingenious dimensions. It was not high enough to stand up in nor yet wide enough to lie down in. One had to take on an awkward manner and live on the diagonal; sleep was a collapse, and waking a squatting.

Mon cher, there was genius—and I am weighing my words—in that so simple invention. Every day through the unchanging restriction that stiffened his body, the condemned man learned that he was guilty and that innocence consists in stretching joyously. Can you imagine in that cell a frequenter of summits and upper decks? What? One could live in those cells and still be innocent? Improbable! Highly improbable! Or else my reasoning would collapse. That innocence should be reduced to living hunchbacked— I refuse to entertain for a second such a hypothesis.

Moreover, we cannot assert the innocence of anyone, whereas we can state with certainty the guilt of all.

Albert Camus, The Fall

innocence consists in stretching joyously

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

Diego,

Truth is, so great, that I wouldn’t like to speak, or sleep, or listen, or love. To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood, outside time and magic, within your own fear, and your great anguish, and within the very beating of your heart. All this madness, if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence, there would be only confusion. I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth. I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many, in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love.

Diego,

Nothing compares to your hands, nothing like the green-gold of your eyes. My body is filled with you for days and days. you are the mirror of the night. the violent flash of lightning. the dampness of the earth. The hollow of your armpits is my shelter. my fingers touch your blood. All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves which are yours.

Auxochrome — Chromophore. Diego.

She who wears the color. He who sees the color. Since the year 1922.

Until always and forever. Now in 1944. After all the hours lived through. The vectors continue in their original direction. Nothing stops them. With no more knowledge than live emotion. With no other wish than to go on until they meet. Slowly. With great unease, but with the certainty that all is guided by the “golden section.” There is cellular arrangement. There is movement. There is light. All centers are the same. Folly doesn’t exist. We are the same as we were and as we will be. Not counting on idiotic destiny.

My Diego,

Mirror of the night

Your eyes green swords inside my flesh. waves between our hands.

All of you in a space full of sounds — in the shade and in the light. You were called AUXOCHROME the one who captures color. I CHROMOPHORE — the one who gives color.

You are all the combinations of numbers. life. My wish is to understand lines form shades movement. You fulfill and I receive. Your word travels the entirety of space and reaches my cells which are my stars then goes to yours which are my light.

Auxochrome — Chromophore

It was the thirst of many years restrained in our body. Chained words which we could not say except on the lips of dreams. Everything was surrounded by the green miracle of the landscape of your body. Upon your form, the lashes of the flowers responded to my touch, the murmur of streams. There was all manner of fruits in the juice of your lips, the blood of the pomegranate, the horizon of the mammee and the purified pineapple. I pressed you against my breast and the prodigy of your form penetrated all my blood through the tips of my fingers. Smell of oak essence, memories of walnut, green breath of ash tree. Horizon and landscapes = I traced them with a kiss. Oblivion of words will form the exact language for understanding the glances of our closed eyes. = You are here, intangible and you are all the universe which I shape into the space of my room. Your absence springs trembling in the ticking of the clock, in the pulse of light; you breathe through the mirror. From you to my hands, I caress your entire body, and I am with you for a minute and I am with myself for a moment. And my blood is the miracle which runs in the vessels of the air from my heart to yours.

The green miracle of the landscape of my body becomes in your the whole of nature. I fly through it to caress the rounded hills with my fingertips, my hands sink into the shadowy valleys in an urge to possess and I’m enveloped in the embrace of gentle branches, green and cool. I penetrate the sex of the whole earth, her heat chars me and my entire body is rubbed by the freshness of the tender leaves. Their dew is the sweat of an ever-new lover.

It’s not love, or tenderness, or affection, it’s life itself, my life, that I found what I saw it in your hands, in your month and in your breasts. I have the taste of almonds from your lips in my mouth. Our worlds have never gone outside. Only one mountain can know the core of another mountain.

Your presence floats for a moment or two as if wrapping my whole being in an anxious wait for the morning. I notice that I’m with you. At that instant still full of sensations, my hands are sunk in oranges, and my body feels surrounded by your arms.

For my Diego

the silent life giver of worlds, what is most important is the nonillusion. morning breaks, the friendly reds, the big blues, hands full of leaves, noisy birds, fingers in the hair, pigeons’ nests a rare understanding of human struggle simplicity of the senseless song the folly of the wind in my heart = don’t let them rhyme girl = sweet xocolatl [chocolate] of ancient Mexico, storm in the blood that comes in through the mouth — convulsion, omen, laughter and sheer teeth needles of pearl, for some gift on a seventh of July, I ask for it, I get it, I sing, sang, I’ll sing from now on our magic — love.

Frida Kahlo’s Passionate Hand-Written Love Letters to Diego Rivera

Videos reales de Frida Kahlo

VIDEOS REALES DE FRIDA KAHLO Y DIEGO RIVERA

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

I'm like an island I'm like a lost soul; Cut off from the rest of the world Walking the same corridors Stalking the same cold shining floors; In search of the place i will stay I'm like an island I'm like a lost soul; Cut off from the rest of the world..... Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Placed on the same staircases Faced with the same choice of steps And paces; In search of the place i will stay; Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls Island of lost souls

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

where does it hurt?

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere *** THESSALONIKI 1. Martiou 2. Foinikas 3. City center 4. Stavroupoli 5. Kalochori

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

Μια ζωή γέμισα μια ζωή γεμάτη ινδάλματα Βιαστικό πέρασμα της ορφανής μουσικής Ανάμεσα στα πιο λευκά οστά Εκεί που πάγωναν τα κρύσταλλα Κι αρχίζανε τα μάτια να θυμούνται Τυχαία πρόσωπα ολότελα τυχαία Εκεί που κλείστηκαν οι πεθαμένοι Βαλμένοι σε μια πέτρα σε μια κίνηση Αποκοιμίζοντας τον έρωτα σε άλλα γόνατα Σάρκα στυφή κομμένη από σώματα που έγερναν Σε χρώματα ηλιακά μέρες και δρόμους ΑΚΡΟΠΟΛΕΩΣ ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΕΙΑΣ ΡΟΣΤΑΝ Χρώματα μέρες δρόμοι που έζησα

Κλείνουν οι δρόμοι ένας ένας Κλείνουνε πίσω Πίσω απ’ τα σκουριασμένα πόδια μας Με τα χλωμά παράθυρα με τα φτωχά ινδάλματα Λόγχη του χρόνου ικρίωμα του καιρού Κλείνουν τα πρόσωπα τα μάτια μέσα μου Βαραίνω

Πώς χώρεσαν Πώς χώρεσαν όλα μέσα μου μ’ αγάπη

Αλέξης Τραϊανός

Chopin: Nocturne no. 19, Op 72 no. 1 (Richter)

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

9 October 1929

Terrible Baby:

I like your letters, which are sweet, and I like you, because you're sweet too. And you're candy, and you're a wasp, and you're honey, which comes from bees and not wasps, and everything's just fine, and Baby should always write me, even when I don't, which is always, and I'm sad, and I'm crazy, and no one likes me, and why should they, and that's exactly right, and everything goes back to the beginning, and I think I'll call you today, and I'd like to kiss you precisely and voraciously on the lips, and to eat your lips and whatever little kisses you're hiding there, and to lean on your shoulder and slide into the softness of your little doves, and to beg your pardon, and the pardon to be make-believe, and to do it over and over and period until I start again, and why do you like a scoundrel and a troll and a fat slob with a face like a gas meter and the expression of someone who's not there but in the toilet next door, and indeed, and finally, and I'm going to stop because I'm insane and I always have been, it's from birth, which is to say ever since I was born, and I wish Baby were my doll so I could do like a child, taking off her clothes, and I've reached the end of the page, and this doesn't seem like it could be written by a human being but it was written by me.

Fernando

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

And in the end, I believe that we don't need to do anything to be loved.

We spend our lives trying to seem prettier, more intelligent.

But I've understood two things.

Those who love us see us with their hearts and attribute qualities to us beyond those we really have.

And those who don't want to love us will never be satisfied with all our efforts.

Yes, I really believe that it is important to leave our imperfections alone.

They are precious to understand those who see us with their hearts. "

Frida Kahlo

love Me

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

To stop the blood of flowers and to reverse harmony. To die in the river, to die in the river. To hear the heart of a rat. There is no difference between the silver of the moon and the silver of my tribe.

To clear the field and to run to the edge of the earth. To bear a crystal in the chest: the word. Soap evaporates at the door, fire illuminates the day. To look back, to look back one more time.

And to remove the robe. The poppy has bitten the sky. To walk empty roads and drink shadows. To feel the oak at the mouth of the well.

To stop the blood of flowers, to stop the blood of flowers. Altars watch each other face to face. To lie down on a blue cabbage.

Tomaž Šalamun

to stop the blood of flowers, to stop the blood of flowers

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

Βερολίνο, Νοέμβριος 1811

Χάϊνριχ μου, αρμονικέ μου, παρτέρι μου από υάκινθους, αυγή μου, λυκόφως μου, γλυκέ μου ωκεανέ, αιολική μου άρπα, τριανταφυλλώνα μου, ουράνιο τόξο μου, μικρό παιδί στην αγκαλιά μου, αγαπ��μένη μου καρδιά, χαρά μέσα στον πόνο μου, αναγέννησή μου, λευτεριά μου, σκλαβιά μου, Σάββατό μου, χρυσό μου δισκοπότηρο, ατμόσφαιρά μου, ζέστα μου, λογισμέ μου, ποθητέ μου εκεί ψηλά κι εδώ κάτω, πολυαγαπημένο μου αμάρτημα, παρηγοριά τών ματιών μου, η πολυτιμότερη απ' τίς έγνοιες μου, η πιο όμορφη απ' τίς αρετές μου, καμάρι μου, προστάτη μου, συνείδησή μου, δάσος μου, λάμψη μου, κράνος μου και ξίφος μου, μεγαλοψυχία μου, δεξί μου χέρι, ουράνια σκάλα μου, Άι–Γιάννη μου, ιππότη μου, τρυφερέ μου ακόλουθε, αληθινέ μου ποιητή, κρύσταλλό μου, πηγή ζωής μου, κλαίουσα ιτιά μου, κύριέ μου κι άρχοντά μου, ελπίδα μου κι απόφασή μου, πολυαγαπημένε μου αστερισμέ, μικρέ μου χαδιάρη, απόρθητο κάστρο μου, ευτυχία μου, θάνατέ μου, πυγολαμπίδα μου, μοναξιά μου, όμορφο καράβι μου, ρεματιά μου, ανταμοιβή μου, Βέρθερέ μου, Λήθη μου, κούνια μου, θυμίαμα και μύρο μου, φωνή μου, κριτή μου, τρυφερέ μου ονειροπόλε, νοσταλγία μου, καθρέφτη μου χρυσέ, ρουμπίνι μου, αυλέ μου, αγκαθωτό στεφάνι μου, χιλιάδες θαύματά μου, δάσκαλέ μου, μαθητή μου, σ' αγαπώ περισσότερο κι απ' όσο μπορώ να φανταστώ. Η ψυχή μου σού ανήκει.

Εριέττα

Υ. Γ. – Η σκιά μου τό μεσημέρι, η πηγή μου μέσα στην έρημο, η καλή μου μητέρα, η θρησκεία μου, η εσωτερική μου μουσική, φτωχέ μου άρρωστε Χάϊνριχ, αρνάκι μου πασχαλινό, τρυφερό κι άσπρο, Ουράνια Πύλη μου. Ε.

~~~

Heinrich von Kleist an Henriette Vogel,

20 November 1811

Mein Jettchen, mein Herzchen, m Liebes, m Täubchen, m Leben, m liebes süßes Leben, m Lebenslicht, m Alles, m Hab u Gut, meine Schlösser, Aecker, Wiesen u Weinberge, o Sonne meines Lebens, Sonne, Mond u Sterne, Himmel u Erde, m Vergangenheit u Zukunft, meine Braut, m Medgen, meine liebe Freundin, m Innerstes, m Hertzblut, meine Einge-weide, m Augenstern, o, liebste wie nen ich Dich? Mein Goldkind, m Perle, m Edelstein, m Krone, m Königin und Kaiserin. Du lieber Liebling meines Herzens, m Höchstes u Theuerstes, m Alles u Jedes, m Weib, m Hochzeit, die Taufe meiner Kinder, m Trauerspiel, m Nachruhm. Ach du bist meines zweites bessers Ich, meine Tugenden, m Verdienste, m Hoff-nung, die Vergebung m Sünden, m Zukunft und Seeligkeit, o, Himmels-töchterchen, m Gotteskind, m Fürsprecherin u Fürbitterin, m Schutz-engel, m Cherubim u Seraph, wie lieb ich Dich! –

Henriette Vogel an Heinrich von Kleist,

20 November 1811

Mein Heinrich, m Süßtönender, m Hyazinthen Beet, m Wonnemeer, m Morgen u Abendroth, m Aeolsharfe, m Thau, m Friedensbogen, m Schoßkindchen, m liebstes Hertz, m Freude, im Leid, m Wiedergeburt, m Freiheit, m Fessel, m Sabbath, m Goldkelch, m Luft, m Wärme, m Ge-dancke, m theurer Sünder, m Gewünschtes hier u jenseit, m Augentrost, m süßeste Sorge, m schönste Jugend, m Stoltz, m Beschützer, m Gewis-sen, m Wald, m Herlichkeit, m Schwerd u Helm, m Großmuth, m rechte Hand, m Paradies, m Thräne, m Himmelsleiter, m Johannes, m Tasso, m Ritter, mein Graf Wetter, m zarter Page, m Erzdichter, m Kristall, m Le-bensquell, m Rast, meine Trauerweide, m Herr Schutz und Schirm, m Hoffen und Harren, m Träume, m liebstes Sternbild, m Schmeichelkäz-chen, meine sichre Burg, m Glück, m Tod, m Herzensnärchen, m Ein-samkeit, m Schiff, m schönes Thal, m Belohnung, m Werthester! m Lethe, m Wiege, m Weirauch und Myrrhen, m Stimme, m Richter, m Heiliger, m lieblicher Träumer, m Sehnsucht, m Seele, m Nerven, m goldner Spiegel, m Rubin, m Syrings Flöte, m Dornenkrone, m tausend Wunderwercke, m Lehrer u m Schüler, wie über alles gedachte u zu erdenckende lieb ich Dich. Meine Seele sollst Du haben. Henriette.

we must make a journey around the world to see if a back door has perhaps been left open

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

How are you? How is your wonderful bathroom? How are the books you read and the things you think? Your dogs and their lives? The weather? Your feelings?

Anne Sexton

(I talk to myself when I write to you)

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

A stranger on the riverbank, like the river ... water

binds me to your name. Nothing brings me back from my faraway

to my palm tree: not peace and not war. Nothing

makes me enter the gospels. Not

a thing ... nothing sparkles from the shore of ebb

and flow between the Euphrates and the Nile. Nothing

makes me descend from the pharaoh’s boats. Nothing

carries me or makes me carry an idea: not longing

and not promise. What will I do? What

will I do without exile, and a long night

that stares at the water?

Water

binds me

to your name ...

Nothing takes me from the butterflies of my dreams

to my reality: not dust and not fire. What

will I do without roses from Samarkand? What

will I do in a theater that burnishes the singers with its lunar

stones? Our weight has become light like our houses

in the faraway winds. We have become two friends of the strange

creatures in the clouds ... and we are now loosened

from the gravity of identity’s land. What will we do … what

will we do without exile, and a long night

that stares at the water?

Water

binds me

to your name ...

There’s nothing left of me but you, and nothing left of you

but me, the stranger massaging his stranger’s thigh: O

stranger! what will we do with what is left to us

of calm ... and of a snooze between two myths?

And nothing carries us: not the road and not the house.

Was this road always like this, from the start,

or did our dreams find a mare on the hill

among the Mongol horses and exchange us for it?

And what will we do?

What

will we do

without

exile?

Mahmoud Darwish

who am I, without exile

[bydayiamnothingandbynightiami]

We get too sentimental over dead animals. We turn maudlin. But only those with fur, only those who look like us, at least a little. Those with big eyes, eyes that face front. Those with smallish noses or modest beaks. No one laments a spider. Nor a crab. Hookworms rate no wailing. Fish neither. Baby seals make the grade, and dogs, and sometimes owls. Cats almost always. Do we think they are like dead children? Do we think they are part of us, our animal soul stashed somewhere near the heart, fuzzy and trusting, and vital and on the prowl, and brutal towards other forms of life, and happy most of the time, and also stupid? (Why almost always cats? Why do dead cats call up such ludicrous tears? Why such deep mourning? Because we can no longer see in the dark without them? Because we’re cold without their fur? Because we’ve lost our hidden second skin, the one we’d change into when we wanted to have fun, when we wanted to kill things without a second thought, when we wanted to shed the dull grey weight of being human?)

Margaret Atwood, Mourning for Cats

I'm cold without your fur (αντίο αγάπημου)