I see great ***** every day in the subway and, suddenly, my favorite Hitchcock movie changes from Rear Window to Vertigo. The movement of the train calms me down and I fall asleep quickly, dreaming that I'm in Kerouac's car, quietly hitting the road like ******* hit his canvas.
I see great ******* every day on the bus that takes me home, but not one single ***** for me to lay my ear on. The dream comes to a crossroad where me and Jack have to part ways. He'll go down in history like a great writer and I'll quietly go down on memory lane in oblivion.
Memory disappointed me and left a bad taste in my mouth - literary ******* ain't what it used to be.
He wasn't afraid of the sky, but of the earth in which he dreamt every night of falling.
He knew no angels, no devils, He was in a perfect balance between heaven and ****, stranded upside down, in a reversed world, waiting for all things to happen or to end.
He was incinerated.
He then was stuffed inside some crackers and got to fill the sky one more time with his explosive personality on July 4th, before falling on everybody and then into the ground he so much feared and hated.
even though there's nothing left in the bottle, it is you that feels empty, transparent, frail, like an eggshell that your mother found in the chicken that your father killed, that didn't have the chance of the frying pan at least.
you drank it all. alone. no Juliet around, no Shakespeare no talent, no tale.
you drank it all. alone. no strippers, no angels, no thieves!
you drank it all.
some may call it messianic delusion syndrome, but I call it.. cheap Chardonnay.