...She gazed into the pond. She was drowning.

Until she glanced at her left side, and she realized
SHE HAD GONE COMPLETELY INSANE.


What lies behind it? And what happens if I gaze upon this reflection?
I'm looking at nothing. Nothing. It's only my own reflection,
except inverted.


I must not look at it, because it is inverted.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.




**I WOULD RATHER GOUGE OUT MY EYES WITH MY BARE FINGERS
BEFORE LOOKING AT THAT HORRIBLE INVERTED REFLECTION

…But you suddenly turn the eyes, dreaming of a long forgotten lore about sails and the glorious ocean. Maybe the mighty heavens above dismiss you into a complete, perennial dissarray of moods. You gaze above, the blue dome above you staring back down, solemn and absent, appathetic, yet hardened with eyes petrified in iron justice; spears of the coldest grey stone that quash the will into bitter dust. You have sinned, and you must pay the price of transgression.


Clutch, no thinking, clutch onto the cliff, quit your pondering, and clutch for dear life unto the grey stone, it is your pondering that will cause your eventual downfall.


Look above: the oceanic heavens, of a mighty azur beckon you!!!
Yes, they beckon for you, oh, prodigal son, fallen Icarus, dare to fly again, dare to spread your wings and soar into eternity, become lost with perpetuity above, in the skies above, above, and towards the great beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!


For beyond is where you will find peace amongst all things eternal...!

I am.

It is at this point.

I usually am very effussive with words and all that, but I just don’t have it in me in this moment.

I no longer remember the last time I felt life cascading into my limbs, from my heart.

Apathy :P

It seeped into my weary shoulders.

Bleh bleh bleh bleh

Words are a waste of *****


Melancholy deeper into the upitty piper purportedly…


Silence. Silence and silence, but why…?


Snow – Nieve – Plumba – White-out – ***** on porcelain – Aruba -










***** on porcelain.

















A faint portrait of hollowed passions and GRAPEFRUIT.
I… I’m sorry, really. I got nothing. I wish I was so noble as to turn bitterness into something majestic, but what are you going to do about it, right?... Right?... Right?.... RIGHT???.........RRRIIIIGHT????? Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff, right? Ra-ra-right?



nO? OkEy DoKeY, then…







Words are stupid, They always have been. Words irritate people and cause wars, and controversy, and celebrity gossip and all that intoxicating pink, glittery smoke. I wish there was a machine, like a bird-making machine, that used dusted, vivissected concepts and turned them, unaltered, into spewed energy. A violent discharge of emotion, but no, no emotion, whatsoever, NO EMOTION AT ALL, cramped and jammed up inside like, like, like, like a trainwreck, still perplexed about the fact that it didn’t have much room to wreck havoc with in the first place, and go smash into burning-red steel debris, so it doesn’t, no no no no, it doesn’t know just what to do, and the innocent bypasser is looking, looking from a dusty cliff among the desert, UNABLE TO FEEL ANY EMOTION, INSENSITIVE, and it was supposed to be christmas, but no one’s weeping for you, no one, that ****’s out of fashion, you’re **** out of luck holmes, clusterfuck full of ****, and ****, and bad luck, sorry holmes, no way, ******* luck, sorry holmes.

Bloh bloh bloh ilhc 674VDW864 A6WD8 4wd 64 WD 64c 6 4wf c6




















Ronald McDonald, sitting on a curb, face resting
upon the palms of the hands, no happy meal for this clown,
no lipstick-painted and make-up-enhanced
smile on the face of this clown, not today,
doesn’t feel like being
a clown today, even though he WAS born a
clown, from a colorfull egg full
of Crayola polka dots, no, and no, and no,
and who would want to be a clown?
Certainly not Ronald McDonald,
and certainly not today.
And words are stupid*.

I wish tears could flow cascading out of these eyes. Redeemer tears, pointing at the crude sculpture that the chisel of undrained emotions carefully crafted inside these tiresome intestines.

Rioted tears, a revolution of tears. I would very much like to scream right now, thank you very much.













I wish I could cry bitterly, weep sorely for my fate and for hers.




























However…




There is nothing in my chest but apathy.

I have no nerve response.

Zero sensorial signal.

So… I can’t.











































Whatever.

A complete cycle later, and there I am, ohh, that feels weird.  Terrible longings pulling on my stomach still, face turned to sunrise, that sun that never rises, an excrutiating dawn that lingers in the atmosphere, a sun that never rises, its ****** forever postponed, always in suspense, it never rises, it never reaches its finale, suspended in the sky, constantly bleeding its red-yellow light but never attaining resolution, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, **it never rises!