with no comment on the burning lips. without another bloody heart in your dirty left hand- you’re good at those things. ripping out hearts. with another bottle of too many percent of alcohol in your right. a smile which represents nothing more than being there and able to come into a halflife, breaking it down and disappear without a smile. because they went. your feelings. holy. no holy ghost, just a normal witch fighting for new stuff to feel alive again. wet eyes. broken bones. empty stomaches. that’s you, darling.

write a book about it instead of firing your missiles all around. they never miss their aim. and then the aim sits there. its thursday night- no, my mistake- friday morning. down the earth. face to the ground. brain killed, nothing left. alcohol, pills, whatsoever who cares as long as its paid. pay and you’ll be free. but there, in this little brain, the head covered with its sweaters cap, hands holding its belly, who is the loser now, hm? proud you. knowing its easy to break glass- he just wishes you will be glass someday. but you won’t. even if you go to be glass, you’ll always be wrapped in a towel. till this towel has the wrong colour, you go and change the towel. like your strings. happy you. bastard thing.

here we go, brave new world. there are you, young, amazing, clever thing- it’s you. perfect Amazon. forgetting about contagious time, your clock is ticking too. it all doesn’t matter. because you have yourself. you believe in music and literature- which isn’t the worst thing you can do.
brave new nothing. brave new running away.

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