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 sperm
Melancholy deeper into the upitty piper purportedly…
Silence. Silence and silence, but why…?
Snow – Nieve – Plumba – White-out – Semen on porcelain – Aruba -
Semen 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 shit’s out of fashion, you’re shit out of luck holmes, clusterfuck full of fuck, and shit, and bad luck, sorry holmes, no way, fucking 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.