i am sick of this pretentious dream. the reality i am certain, would be sharp enough to kill me before i learn to see. yet, better dead than sorry. enough of peeping over the rim of my myopic glasses, pressing the cold, wet windows of the rot-bus, hoping to hang around long enough to see the sun die. i was always drawn by the little, wasted, dead bottle-babies, kept in the museum. their eyes swollen and turgid with formalin. i believe i know now, how they see the world. its a kaleidoscope vision. only, after a while the eye starts to hurt, fingernails dissolve and you wish you could puke yourself inside out. thank god the beaker-babies were dead. or else they would have tried to cry and drowned.
silence never speaks. it creates a mirror in which you capture your soul. if there is silence between you and your shadow, run away, or throw yourself off the roof. let your shadow live a life she deserves. the constellations are not kind. snakes will always slither. money would always be stolen. men would always be aware of women. we live in an expanding universe. everyday we are moving away from each other. roots were ripped savage, the moment the umbilical snapped.....
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