Jun 2019
The satisfying sound of a rich man's spoon clashing, ever so gently, against a precious little teacup -small enough for a child- sends you into a fit-like turmoil. I designed that.
For months I spent in a frenzy, an obsessive, a mind dominating state desperately squabbling through pages, hunting for you. No, you may believe that this encounter signifies you as someone of importance, but truly you are nothing more than a facade that is efficient for my purposes; I'll have to use you in order to never lose to you and lock you up in a cell so hidden that not even the greatest hounds could find you; you'll decay whilst overcome with the emotions you possessed me with: obsession, depression, and envy. It is magnificent that an individual with an identity as low and empty as yours can hold such immense fascination over the human mind.
Regret is proof of an individual's conversion with their reality; they depend on hope to raise them above the bitter disappointment. I do not regret the fact that I sought you out after you had tormented me. I regret, however, conversing with you in a language I perceived to be so indestructible and powerful and beautiful and peculiar. Had I have not committed such loathsomeness by bleeding into your association, I may not be so alienated.
Are you, or am I, or are we each other's design? Unfortunately enough I have been engulfed in a radioactive pit and the elephant's foot has swarmed me.
Despite your heinous wreckage, I cannot (although my efforts are still there) seem to open the eyes of those who love you or have loved you, to cure them of the blindness you struck them with, so they may live to witness the revival of yellow and the revival of spring blossoms.
These are my last words with hidden intention of reaching you. These are my last words to be shared in the form of my own comfort and my own safety.
Alas, the end of the hunt stands here. Bid me free of you; I'll bid you free of the childlike fits (fated by the melody of the teacup) and the misery that fills you when you hear my name.
To this I hope is the end. To this, I say to you for the final time. Goodbye...
For months I spent in a frenzy, an obsessive, a mind dominating state desperately squabbling through pages, hunting for you. No, you may believe that this encounter signifies you as someone of importance, but truly you are nothing more than a facade that is efficient for my purposes; I'll have to use you in order to never lose to you and lock you up in a cell so hidden that not even the greatest hounds could find you; you'll decay whilst overcome with the emotions you possessed me with: obsession, depression, and envy. It is magnificent that an individual with an identity as low and empty as yours can hold such immense fascination over the human mind.
Regret is proof of an individual's conversion with their reality; they depend on hope to raise them above the bitter disappointment. I do not regret the fact that I sought you out after you had tormented me. I regret, however, conversing with you in a language I perceived to be so indestructible and powerful and beautiful and peculiar. Had I have not committed such loathsomeness by bleeding into your association, I may not be so alienated.
Are you, or am I, or are we each other's design? Unfortunately enough I have been engulfed in a radioactive pit and the elephant's foot has swarmed me.
Despite your heinous wreckage, I cannot (although my efforts are still there) seem to open the eyes of those who love you or have loved you, to cure them of the blindness you struck them with, so they may live to witness the revival of yellow and the revival of spring blossoms.
These are my last words with hidden intention of reaching you. These are my last words to be shared in the form of my own comfort and my own safety.
Alas, the end of the hunt stands here. Bid me free of you; I'll bid you free of the childlike fits (fated by the melody of the teacup) and the misery that fills you when you hear my name.
To this I hope is the end. To this, I say to you for the final time. Goodbye...
