I thought the glory… the world would be at my feet… as I punched the air with one fist… everybody watching me… the glory… the world at my feet… satisfaction is, obviously, having nothing left to do, imagine! And… the piss-stinking city was below me, me… ha ha… I am scorched pink earth (THAT EVENING I DIDN’T DISTINGUISH THE EARTH FROM THE SKY, horizon)… the world actually streams out from my head… like tending to the plants on my small balcony. It’s true.
When I can’t sleep… or who knows when (actually that this thing is happening)… aching for… I think… it’s all a question of this battle with death… I run to suicide inventing all before me…
with nothing behind your eyelids… only the world is a couple of lines I invented… until youth hits some extreme exhaustion like a truck running straight into a wall at 90 clicks in the middle of the night with the high beams on… And what then may await us? … Your head in the stars.
And then refuse to die, as if the shell of yourself can keep going… without anything to distinguish itself from a shell. This being your pathetic will, I imagine, and I admire it. Everything after youth merely refusing death… in a straight line, any other discourse being deviant bullshit.
-LPM
No comments:
Post a Comment