You deserve the best you say. All the cookiesmells of the word, blossomgardens and rainbowcolours, cigarette breaks and hallelujahs.
You say, it’s the best, to stay on someones side, fight and dance for your life, get purple by thinking of being eternal. Death, so you say, makes it all possible to live. You’re so smart, as I said, you deserve the best. And you take it. With or without the money of the world, you get what you take. You’re smart in a way a lot of people don’t get it. Me neighter.

I once said, you’re the neonlight in the very bright sky, you’re the best smell I ever used to taste, you’re the pretty pretty please of the popmusic, the label of the best and most intense lovesongs ever written. You say the right things at the very right time.

And here it comes: you laugh yourself to your fucking death.

You forgot to do the dishes.
Forgot to ask „hey, how’re you doin‘?“ and listen.
Forgot not to take anyone elses life to be more happy.
You forgot to take the last plane, it was yours darling, now it’s gone. Where will you stay?
You’ve got good, fucking good storys, but just if there’ll be people who clean up for you, take care of your burnt-out muscles and your non-exsiting plans. Get some sleep little tiger. It’s gonna be a long long trip. Till you’re fiftyfife and- not pretty enough anymore to take care of your just-being-exsisting-is-fucking-enough.

Cheers Mr Butterfly

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