The more emotional a thing gets, the more painful it’ll become. Sometimes when you even get sick of drinking, sniffing, smoking and fucking, you wonder what the shit is all about. Wonder, why all the priests on the Hollywood-TV pledge you to go out and try again and again and smth about the wonder of love and stuff. You scream and hate the world because you are fucking dying inside and noone can help you, neither words in books nor your friends nor any song in the world. You want to die away. So you go out again, looking for further eyes, give a shit about smoking kills, having another pair of hands on your face. Then you sit down and realize that’s all bloody shit and that this couldn’t be the way, this couln’t be life, not yours, what the fucking hell this is all about. Bloody pain.
All this green, and violet skies, these softcore birds telling you that the sun will shine forever are dead, vomited their bowels out, lost their wings by trying to get rich. The doorsteps to the great theatre are broken, rotten and nothing more than a facade and you see that you’ve to dream your world to get happy again. Dream your tigers and rabbits, dream your frogs and cats, dream your butterflys and peter pans, your pretty womans and velvet undergrounds, dream your rock’n roll, your icecream, your sunset and yourself being fallen in love forever with the mate called life.
Than you take a nip of the bottle in your left, take a step on the soft carpet below your feet, climb on Fuchurs back and fly to the ivory tower to save your own god damn dream and tell the bad motherfucker to jump down the building because the trottoirs need some new red on these gray days.