There are days when you are for nobody. When it's taken a lot to whatever and you rather die than move. Clumbsy. Unconscious. It's all the same if it does not involve movement. See...
Pills don't work, there is no effect. I don't cry because I haven't got which what do. The voice doesn't go out. As my cat ate it. I have no tongue. My saliva is sheer and with sweet tobacco taste -a white Chesterfield pack.
I can't find the cigarette lighter. Segregation. Of. Abscence. I search carefully among my books. One falls and one rolls; real quotes in dead paper by dead hands, where fields passed to armed deputies which never come to inspire more respect than censorship. I want to hear how my mother's corpse rots under the ground. Who rule my steps? Our? I don't what to talk about it, btw. I have a false impression. The impression that is something I've never managed to decide. I don't make mistakes. I never do. I don't believe in god and god knows it. I'm atheist in theory, that percent quantity of polls that doesn't exists and vote for Nobody. But sometimes, immeasurable, it's looking at the sky and curses or says 'dude, you behaved well'. I don't know anybody good. All dies. Leaves descompose and my writings get yellowish. Even bound. Fewer times minded less lie or truth; words are obscene way of contact, vegetal pirity sullier. They disappeared once read with heavy sea murmur and truly we have to unmake the world. What I want to say. If knowledge was language's subject, there wan't a single written phrase. If eyes exist are to pull them with tidiness. Life has so low value..! Yes. I don't want to see a sunrise, so I'll celebrate my Last Supper and the one who was made bread, burn him at the stake of the sad majority. Writers. Bring your pen and stuck it in your cranium.