I have no desire to write but I have to empty, I get all this shit
cockroaches and poison running through my veins corrupt drug.
This afternoon, died in February, sounds like Nirvana, Cobain's voice seems to me a lullaby, a lullaby perfect, perfectly realized intercourse.
"Come as you are" ...
is as if they were playing for me, for this dead dog to me. Lost
any hive dirty floor fucking city of any country.
delirium is exacerbated if for a moment think about drinking and smoking ..
but I do not need ...
I have enough with the taint of filth that builds up in this house,
perpetual silence,
medium blinds up, and some butt
another immaculate in an ashtray lost
to go crazy.
Or to go into another universe,
the weakness of the total,
that of negligence, float
what if,
in all this,
having lost for a moment or not,
charge of your life.
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