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::Sedate
I get nauseous times without reason. My guts feel funny and I get those fucking headaches. The fags helped to reduce the intensity and sleeping in the afternoons managed to make them disappear for the duration I slept, only to come back worse than before and making me more and more nocturnal at night. Fuck, I'm not pregnant. I don't know what I am. Thinking of her everysecond if a goddamn killjoy.
I go paint shit pictures, write shit poems and go waste money on books I dont even know if I'll read.
I get out of the house to be with the nothing outside because there is more nothing at home. I see Munch kind of people walking around. The perfect image Manson dreamed-up about: hollow-eyed people, white dopestarspure in their nothingness. Walking around me, fagging, mumbling shit. Could be I was the one walking, fagging mumbling around them. Them. People, buildings, cars. Just slideshow stills flashing past me. Just mannequins modelling the latest boredom. I'm too fucked to argue and too awake to ignore. Too human to be perfect.
-Whad the fuhck does Royal Correspondent mean? They jeep singin abhout BBC tv and english crap shit. I hate this fuhkin song.
Liar. I love it. I things it's the most beautiful songs ever. But does it matter? What I say, or do now dont have to mean anything. What I see or hear may be an illusion. May be nothing.
Self-denier.
So what? I need my fags.
One day there was a poet. He wrote a poem called the 'Evening Flower' and he fell in love with the lady in his own poem.
-What will I give just to be with you.
He sighed.
He became obsessed with her and one night, after much thinking, he burnt the piece and killed himself.
The life of a pathetic anti-social.