Nobody tries to forget, it already has. Unfortunately.
Do not say anything. Do not talk. And days are available. We are still not yet the day and night.
notes poking through my head. It was my first meal of jazz. I was hungry as a poet. It was already
yet.
It was not always, I wanted it to be so.
Writing with his heart, which knows how to give love.
Play for me, Thelonious. Play! Enjoy!
Far from me in the cold or heat in a suburb of sad, there are girls, girls of Santa Claus giving joy to men rout in their mouths and between their legs, they engulf the misery will soon open their hearts once a year. They love to car doors, they make love. Volunteer their time to men without love and lack of time.
Yes, I know it's a fucking sad that takes you over the Christmas night, when you write to ask you why you write.
You write with fine sentiments. Your first name is Narcissus. This is not a gift that made you your parents.
better done, not done well, will know why ...
The things is in the how. The
immeasurable, and countries desperate, I gave birth to the sea waves, thumbed its nose picking the mist on the wild moors.
Positive ions prevent me from breathing.
excision, exclusion, imprisonment ideas locking themselves in words.
Not that I do not want to admit, I've always built my doubts, I did the pagan festival, and Down syndrome tarantula nestled at the bottom round of sex, injured, the woman who bore me.
I wanted speed, discover settings, go to the far end, climb the walls of my room.
I wanted the sun to come hold my hand.
I always wanted to become a writer. Some drink wine
Mass as if caressing the buttocks of a concierge. Religion Notes offends me. I hate it. Play of words with them, against them.
And if I were to build a house someday, I would build in the walls of books. In walls lips.
Yes, yes, I know ... doctor who can embrace the more worse ...!
Too bad. We are never forced, if not by the constraints that must adapt. Find the injury and find a word, it's a game shared between author and reader.
A set of the right, a night of Christmas in the stars.
A Christmas night without stars and without the peoples of the sky. I continue to copy the crime of my ancestors.
Journalist of haphazard or chance, I was born in the street of sorrow and it is.
Man is born to fuck or be fucked.
And if I read Henry Miller, to ask for her hand in the literature.
So priority to grief because they are my gravity. The unique universal. When people ask me what time is it in the shade, I say, it rains. And I answer. I
source.
It rains in abundance. This is the
.
I am weary.
time shit that rains like a fish.
Yes, it rains on shadow and Barbara is a slut. All the men entered her vagina by their locomotive whistle.
I do not watch anything but the eyes of a "girl." This sex
so different, so blue. I like getting into
Barbara.
The scent of my friends died, the track.
I like getting into it.
As if I were different from myself. The novel I've ever written. This sort of another. This
condemned to infamy.
- What do you think?
- I think nothing. I am.
And if I wrote?
The artist, Bengal tiger, Mr. Jesus.
Then I laugh and lie down sad. Between her naked thighs. She has the skin of a peach is tender and smooth sex. I cry. I am a dog masochist. I do not want her to admire me, definitely not, she treats me with mud and cock, she shut myself in the landscape that I belong to him and it removes me. No Need
, she said.
The streets of St. Petersburg are full! No place is free. The snow has melted. There is now only hatred. Under the cloak of snow exist forever as girls lost.
The regrets are lost, sinking into the tiny, the inevitable small virtue.
No death will be more pleasant than mine. To the extent that death may one day be mine.
Do you remember Barbara?
you remember? Do you remember this guy? He had acne at forty rods, a Volvo he was driving at two hundred per hour on the motorway Paris-Province in two hours. He arrived on time, swallowed a bottle of whiskey. He said that his parents owned a castle. Oh! It was certainly a castle in England.
you remember ?. You had mentioned the idea that all that was hiding a fig leaf. And you were right. Because it was all true. This was true as the true misery of a dancer who has no feet.
was before yesterday.
He remained a little water in the well.
And candy. And
gifts under the tree. He remained
him.
I was already a tragedy and I was trying to look like myself.
I had read too many books. I was already reversed.
Then on the night of Dec. 31, he threw up his mistakes. By hanging. I did not cry because it was not my fault.
Oh! My God!
My father told me not to cry, supporting an absurd thesis. Life is not our fault.
A regret should be discharged overboard Put a kick. And he added, if men have become women because they are cowards.
Everything with life when things go wrong. The
corns hurt. I should consult a doctor. A
author.
M'ausculter. I know it's loose like a cord and that we would hang himself.
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