It has been a long time
(it's difficult for me to remember this expression), 
since I've not heard about my Irish angel.

He blocked public access to his friends on facebook to me,
so I thought, obviously, it had been because of my fault: trying to speak to a friend of him (maybe his potential girlfriend, still worse, the woman of his life! So it was a big intrusion, speaking about correctness.
(but I guess this things might happen in the facebook wide world, so, then, why so many faces on it?).
Then, I blocked him for ever (for ever!) in my facebook list of friends.
So I've not seen him for a long time, now.

I can live with or without him, of course.
It was only my imagination.
That's all I can induct from all that.
See you, my mystic love, anyway.

Dear you,
I'm writing this letter because I have nobody else to talk to.
Today it has been terrible, I would say,
but how can it be?
I've been surrounded
by people I work with,
I have a book to read by Friday,
a possible grant for a summer course,
a professional goal,
an online course to deal with,
piles in the bum,
cockroaches in the kitchen.
Bye,

I would never live far away from home.
My brother, at hospital,
my mother, taking care of all her flowers,
my father, growing up,
where would they be?
And him, an impossible dream.
Take things as they are, dear,
I tell to myself.
No heart, no pain.

I feel tired, as I was one hundred years old,
but tomorrow I might feel better,
without all these obstacles to overcome in front of me.

Tomorrow I might get up very very Early,
and take a lot of coffee with a little of milk,
and not to need anything in the whole day but working, quietly.