Kaput

No one can love you like I do. No one can love me like I do.

There is this kind of reeling found only in the narcissistic that also has a place in questions like this. I see the reeling, the keen temptation, utter madness, to give a cross-country answer.

It's Hell. It's purgatory. It's the grave. It's definitely not on Forbes list that objects become once they are kaput.

You know, ruined.

Except we all have our different meanings of kaput. My friend, what kaput means to you might be quite different from what it means to me.

Oh, you are curious about what it means to me?

Funny lad.

I don't think I quite know, but trust me when I say it's the feeling of basement under floor. You'd never sink any lower and if you do, you'd not be reading this.

But who am I, favored by life, to tell you what utter desolation is like? I am the one who sees fairies in the dark where no stars shine, lad.

In all, if kaput is subjective, then the aftermath must be too, a shifting that depends on whoever's face is to be looked upon, akin to a child watching an airplane fly up in the sky.

It's a butterfly, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's the trajectory of my mother's stick, of mathematics.

You make up your end after kaput. Let this flourishing young miss be.