I do not know what.
This feeling of the end that always comes too fast, and certainty of death which always strikes a somewhat random (learn to be chosen) and then the madness that is creeping into the veins those who are too sensitive or too crazy to live in this world.
younger, I prayed that it takes me to a place that looks like an asylum. It might be me carefully. Because I knew ahead of time that I was not made for this world. I definitely cried in front of bars. As I imagine my beloved Ludwig cried. The bars have been around forever. We might have found the solution to the itch, the itch is called malaise.
Maybe.
I have not been answered.
When the very first time I read the last page of the novel by Philip K. Dick, A Scanner Darkly , sadness hit me like a leaden weight.
But it's partly my fault, I love these purposes like an uppercut. I like that it hits me. I like to smile when I am mistreated. I cry at the same time I'm sick. The first time I took a shot, I laughed. Not a blow to the soul. Not because it was new, oh no. But because it was the first time I have someone so disgusted that he wanted me to put his fist in his mouth.
There are people that do not disappoint, especially when you deny their love. And it made me happy.
I felt proud, and strong, the nose on the tarmac and hair full of mud.
That's life. Any Russian hero will tell you. That's life. I am a slave. I enjoy the most beautiful moments because they will not return. I look at the sky.
There are fewer stars this year.
There are fewer stars, long time.
We advance and when you do not expect more, is the plummeting assured. There are cockroaches on the floor, where one is certain yet been washed, and the blues in the heart, but he, we are accustomed. Maybe even in the heart, there are more, but how? It may simply be ill, too.
Right Similarly, we would like to remember when this roach made its appearance. Remember the first time we took him under his arm, and that has rocked our tears when we rocked him to his dark thoughts. We would like to remember him when we shook hands, and that he opened the door. Between here because there is no hope. Something like that.
And because dammit, I knew it would end like this. It should end like this. We try just a little more, and we miss. No need to go further, the book is written, and everything ends badly.
No lights, for anyone.
We need you to get the idea die. Learn to see your loved ones die. Learn to see the love away. Learn to debate like a fly in a spider web. You'll always be in the death of the heart, you can never heal this wound, so what? We are only wounds and corruptions.
should only be wound and pus.
We remain hooked. A substance death. And we all have a little in the veins of the substance dead. When I turn
my cigarette, I tell myself "hey it is: A little of substance death in the lungs and throat, and perhaps even elsewhere . But I am weak. And like Siouxsie sang, when the smoke rushes to my head, I can not resist .
And then what? I do not care.
I will die before the others, and these other people will say that I just had to be careful, they wave their fingers under my nose skeletal and have the appearance of Death, and they are right.
It seems that I flirt with death, and that maybe one day it will be more than my friend, and at least I got to know her. I am privileged. Few will have the chance.
Substance death and remember that you will die. Wear your skin like your stupid flag. Killing a man is nothing. Maybe those we love we take a picture one last time, on the deathbed. They will we sit, we make up, lipstick on our lips and pale cheeks. They will sit there, right next to us, lay their hands on the shoulder and say to the gentleman to take the picture.
Spent empty.
They tell us how much they liked it. This will be their last act of love. This will be the wind. They have consciousness. They catch up with what they forgot to do in the past. We always forget to do something. That something is back to face like a boomerang. And if they're the ones who die before we will put ourselves sitting on the chair.
And I say: I loved this one! I think I liked it. I do not know how. Perhaps in reality, I have always hated. The only link it to me, it was used. It was part of my world.
But damn reality.
I do not know. I want to show how much I loved him. I want to make one last card game with her. I want to show that I loved her. Just show it. I would be willing to die for it, but you know what? I lied.
I did not leave my place because I did not love her enough.
Do not forget that you will die.
Perhaps quietly, perhaps in your sleep. Maybe pushing a last gasp, his face in PILLOWS. Perhaps breaking his nose, like Janis, falling with all his weight on the ground, because the soul can no longer carry us. Maybe like Brian Jones, drowned like Ophelia, not far from where Winnie the Pooh has played. Maybe in excruciating pain.
Patience.
Patience, and we'll know.
I dream Ophelia, in my element. In water, as Virginia Woolf and as Brian Jones, but especially as Ophelia. Because water is never what it seems. Because water is Venice, Bruges, and she drags her nausea in its undertow. It
balance stones on the shore of his being, his skeleton. And these stones become sand, dust and sand will become. Jesus died for my sins, those of the past and those to come, told me.
And Therese of Lisieux was right. It to look so peaceful on his deathbed. I remember the Middle Ages. Choose the path of littleness, because you're tiny. Choose the path of littleness because Jesus loves you like that. He loves poor, helpless love it. He loves you even if you miss. He loves you every time you miss. He will love you even with your follies of magnitude. That's what my favorite priest told me.
He held my hand, stroked my cheek and told me he knew how I felt. You think you're like no other. Is not this the sum of your vanity? You're no better than the others. Even though I know there is something, deep down, that differs. And I love you with this difference.
Jesus, in His infinite mercy, forgive thee thy folly. He will forgive your slamming of doors. He will forgive your hysterics. It pardonnnera melodrama you knits. He will forgive your terrible vanity, thy faith to be the One. It
be welcoming your Love. It
forgive your hatred.
Substance death in thoughts that are not. This is already better than nothing. It always differs suicide. It is like an eagle up there. We know that strength to soar above the treetops, it will not descend. They will call us beautiful down there, we know that it's too late.
Day, recreation, it is not over. We never want to do it eventually. We want to drink till you drop.
He said: I do not want to see anyone die.
And Other answers: learn to love and know that your loved ones will die. What you've done on leaving, nobody has accused you. You forgot us.
He said he went to war as he played as a kid. The Other
said no wonder not live for you.
And I say damn, I see the world in fire and blood. It's my dream. I'm sure, then, to have an absolute love for all of you before you are memories. I'm not afraid anymore. Even if I am unfinished. Although I am ashamed to be there.
I want to see, like wolves, my neck bristled with anger, even in pain, when I climbed into the cup of Fools of Gotham.
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