My body is a wasteland if worn parts.
My soul is the rusted joints, holding my soul to my body...But keeping just a knocking distance from reality.
Reality is the soil upon which every anxious structure of my body is built.
To let this building crumble is to **** the last of my faith in myself and I will NOT be repaired this time around.

I can never fall again.

That's why we paint over these cracked plasters...And build on all of the rotted cores...
This building of mine BOTTLES up every bad thing going on inside of me and
PAINTS
Over it.
I must never fall because to fall is to show what's inside.
To fall is to break and never, ever recover.
So why the **** am I crumbling to the ground...

I hold so much regret for the things I could not say when given the opportunity.

I wish there was a more sacred word for loving someone. It has become a silent goodbye in the whisper of society. I feel that sacred word deeply for you, Michael.

There should only be one and it will be my last one.

The nicest killings begin with bitter panic attacks followed by the heartache of a shattered soul.

"It's not that it was the worst
but it was very bad," the old
man said.
"I wasn't hanging but the noose
was so thick around my frail neck.
I was nine. And the
forest was
dark.
Night.
And holding me, they made my
old man dig a deep hole.
He did as they said
to buy my freedom.
They untied me then and
put the rope around my old man's
arms and legs
and threw him in the hole
and covered him up with dirt.
They didn't make me watch.
But I did.
I wanted to photograph their
faces with my eyes
to burn their smirks under my eyelids.
Well, the saddest thing about it all is
that they died, all of them were
caught and condemned to death
before I was old enough or strong
enough to hunt down and
**** them myself.
The greatest regret of my life.
The world, you see, has no true justice
It never had.
You see, young man, that's why I
can never be a child of God.
He wants us all to forgive.
I can't.
Don't want.
Will not.
Ever.
So instead of going to church
I pass out in bars like this one
It's been my favorite lately
And you're my only friend, young man.
You're the only one weird enough to
listen to this old, demented fool's stories."

"I'll always listen,"
I said.
"Here, how about another drink?"

"Another drink, sure. Thanks.
But I'm afraid you won't be
listening to these stories for long.
I'm going away, young man."

"Where?"

"Well, to court first
and then
definitely
to jail."

"To jail at your age?
What did you do?"

The old man smiled a toothless
smile. "Old as I am, I used to have
front teeth, you know? Well, the
reason I no longer have them...
I bit a child's ear off.
It was his face.
It reminded me of them. Belonged to the
same race. So I figured... you know,
maybe he was one of their descendants.
It was the least I could do. All
I could do...
I told you I'm crazy. I told
everyone."

"Yep, but I'm listening. I'm a
writer..."

"Really?"

"No, but I try to be. Want to."

"Heh, guess we're both crazy
after all. Cheers."

I remember the hidden chapel bells in her voice,
The little cloister of her abbey looks that opened
To a lovelorn courtyard of cisterns and well works,
The sounding pulleys and ropes from the springs,
I will miss her nothing said to my infinite misgivings.