Hm... surprisingly to me I am still not able to fall asleep though it's 3 in the morning. A pathetic wish to stop being awake was overcome by a strong will to empty my bladder. Dead silence hit my ears when I was crossing the hall which affected my perception of the place I was crossing on my way to the jacks. It was definitely not the thing to hear at that time of the night or at any other time of the day in that room. Usually the existence in this apartment was accompanied by trash-metal songs commonly beginning with some exclusively idiotic lyrics like: "Hell yeah, the demons of Valhalla have found the bloody flesh" which was followed on by a senselessly loud screeching guitar solo described by my mate as "pure mathematics, man", though to me it was more like a biology of single-celled bacteria when they were replicating. Nevertheless, I did not bother being woken up, fed, drunk and put asleep by this excessive brainstorm as my tolerant ass got used not being bothered by anything. I silently stepped into the hallway maneuvering between wires, shoes, purses and other rubbish left on the floor, opened the door to the jacks and a sigh of relief left my body for good. After my eyes finally opened I took a notice of a piece of paper sunk in the 'water'. I could barely read the inscription saying: "I will never have such beautiful portions of love with anyone as I had with you". The first thing I wondered about was if that was written by a fucking Looney Toon Bugs Bunny character. Listen to this: beautiful portions of love. As if you were fed two three times a day and it was nicely served but then you ate it all quickly and stayed full for another 5 or 6 hours. But it was no God Damn Bugs Bunny. It was my mate...
Earlier on that day I heard them quarrel in their lovely bed, which was nothing more but several pieces of wooden scrap put together and covered with a thin green cloth that definitely could not prevent metal springs from leaving those ugly spiral marks on your body by the time you woke up and piercing your ass. It was nothing more but a common argument about something 'I came too late to hear'. The basic easy level campaign scenario was played by him when he got off the bed went to the gents to wipe those men's tears and that sadness tint off his face, dressed up and left slapping the door. I say 'easy level' because he predictably came back in a few minutes and squeezed inbetween the three objects known respectively as the couch the blanket and the girlfriend. And then there was dead silence. 
Apparently, whenever he was trying to get rid of that not-male-looking face in the jacks he tried to express his emotional condition by writing her a short letter which was later on found by me swimming in the depths of my middle-aged white friend we had so much pleasant time with. While I was still coloring the dull gray paper into 'sunny-yellow' with my 'organic paint' and my 'hasn't been used for 5 months brush' two questions couldn't help bothering me: 1. If you wanted her to read this sacramental confession of yours, why da hell on Earth would you put it in the freaking toilet sinking in the water? it's not romantic at all! 2. If you did NOT want her or anyone to read this because you made friends and lovers4ever again why didn't you burn it or tear it into millions of pieces?
But I felt good. When the letter got finally painted I got some kind of a marvelous flash of enlightment that this is how it happens! THIS IS IT! Whatever you do, feel, experience, like, love, admire, believe, express, suffer, enjoy... it just gets either peed over or made stool on by people. The best case if they flush the toilet afterwards. In mine they never did but somehow I did not longer feel alone and thought that I would mercilessly continue expressing myself through my bladder on all the things that concern people I do not care about.