Sad Truth ... and Such, bestial in form, finally attracted. Evil, then, I bribed. "I
all, I do nothing, I shit, I am drunk, I poet, I fool, I am an anarchist, I am a fascist,
I am rich, I no money, I radically different I and I the same, nigger, jew, communist! I
fag, I know why I sing on board, I fake, I am true, I genius, fool me ... "
Well, I can say for sure: the illusion-as well as it is now normal-fall, torn by the blades of a cold awareness, dreams, too, fall ...
E 'a slight fall, devoid of all sound.
Like shadows die?
shadow can die?
simply become nothing, in this timeless, funny, circus no longer feel the burn on the skin indifference of others, "non- importance "(no) in the eyes of those who, theoretically, once he promises (and uttered words) far greater than its actual ability / capacity.
I'm tired of these puppets in this vast, yet sad, gray tent.
I would run away, but my legs do not know how to get around, where to move.
... and stay there, nailed to a figure in which not even recognize myself: a dress too tight in some places and in others, already "transformed", worn and threadbare.
Screaming, running can serve? Escape has never been my forte, you know?
Usually I run with all my strength towards a goal, often completely wrong, then for them out of the ground.
... so I'm doing, again, I might not have been enough the lesson of life "received"?
Is not it enough to see how the dark phalanx of Evil may spoil, corrupt the most loved by us?
How to protect yourself? There is no protection!
the sun is branded it an attempt, rejected ..
So much, then, letting go, stripping away the skin that wears well (though painfully) to begin a new, slow-accurate-reconstruction.
are here ... I write, but I think three "angels" cold eyes, skin, marble and silver hair.
Here I want to rest a little (two or three hundred years ...) to wake up, finally, load a new, illuminating, consciousness: All is dead, everything is now finished.
Everything is now far from my ability.
... if there were possibilities, opportunities, of course now I'd be the happiest of men to choose the womb of their own future pain, however, is simply tragic.
... then that would be enough simply to admit that it did not feel the pleasure! Instead
not deserve even a little bonus ... I was obviously a really bad person!
Tired of being disappointed, and to convey this discomfort.
Good evening.
(No, I'm not wishing at all, as is understandable, but only to a small group)
-LXVIII-