Why should I? Who says so? What's the point? Is it worth it? So? Who cares? Can't be bothered Too much effort Maybe tomorrow If you like Whatever Be my guest Try - shmy Best – shmest Work – shmirk Rules - shmules Conscience - shmonscience Life - shmife
The moon is my sun, The night is my day, Blood is my life, And you are my prey.
Tell me a story of how much the sun loved thy moon so much, that he died every night just to let her breathe. But why **** thyself when you can keep the moon from the skies and the stars all for yours to see? My moon is mine. No other sky shall she rise without me, no other stars shall share her sky with. Only the sun, only me, only mine.
You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent, the more selfish. You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me, and still come with me, and hating me through death and after.
excerpt from carmilla, joseph sheridaan le fanu (1872)
The Leader in the country, who doesn't care about the people' needs The police who don't care about the crime The Richman who doesn't care about the poor people The MD who doesn't care about the employees The people who don't care about others' struggles The friends who don't care about their friends situation The person who doesn't care about breaking others' heart after getting their needs Are the leeches, And stick on the skin to **** the blood to improve their selves.
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As I tidy, I organise time in little pill-pockets, sweep debris from sills and tables. I dice their cravings and fancies into some sort of meal, and wash nine hours of lines trod and toed from my clothes, ready for morning.
These things make me feel needed, and I resent them as though they are chains. Do you draw me as selfish?
As I rest, I see my oldest cup with my keys; my coat and cleaned-boots left by the radiator gathering heat, and I wrap myself in a patchwork of dreams. I catch a wink - my favourite colours - beaded from the heartbreak-dark of a room.
These things make me feel loved, and I breathe them as though they are air. Do you draw me as ungrateful?
As I watch, I turn my reflection this way, that way, pile ink-hair on her crown. I imagine my burgundy dress fall over her hips to the floor - reveal to my mind the vanity of sheer-stockings and dark eyelash-lace on porcelain skin.
These things make me feel beautiful, and I miss them as though they are dead. Do you draw me as shallow?