The ever pointless circle admist finding a point has been given a face... albeit a not very good one (damn my mediocre paint skills) so I sort of prefer the faceless circle but still I thought I would post it and see which you all like better c: 

*Firstly I would like to apologise in advance for the fact I'm Irish and you might not be able to understand what I say, so I've written it out below and also for the not so stunning quality of my recording equipment ie my 4 year old laptop microphone and audacity*

I wrote our story. I gave it a title which meant nothing. Called it; ‘the seven days of you’ and mused pages and pages  over the brevity of lust Thought for hours upon end of how hallow ones touch can be. Stared in a mirror to see what you had seen. To feel. what you forgot. I gave it a name, in hope it had meant something. But failed to remember what it’s  called. A simple call you  shouted high. You screamed it loud. How little I meant, and would mean. This is not a tale meant for books and tv and screens of beautiful girls, the lucky few. The lucky few. In your memory, a picture I drew, painted perfectly, positioned by my bed. Hung on my wall. Canonized in the light of dawn, shining through closed curtains that shield the room with a heavenly glow. So I can remember. When I’m supposed to forget. The story, that lasted pages and pages and books and shelves of you. That became you. The only memory of you that was mine alone. And On each skimmed page,  with so many lines reads the title of this pantomime, of a girl who  didn’t know and a boy who  didn’t have the time, I called it  ‘The Seven Days of You  eternally engraved in my mind’

(Unfortunately this doesn't fit in with any of the themes hitrecord has going on right now. But I did this. One night at ridiculous o clock, in drunken o state I wrote a poem called 'the seven days of you' which unsurprisingly was quite dreadful and was unfortunately posted on the internet. I grew to like it though, it told a story of something I had wanted to talk about for a while. And I wanted to talk about it some more. So now at another ridiculous o clock, in a cold o winter a state, I wrote another poem. I spoke it.)