The urge to write is immense.
A sabbatical of misery.
A half-empty glass, a failure's success.
بانت نهاية قصتك، وانعرف منهو الأناني.
Words are limited, letters are not enough.
Dictionaries are filled with shit.
But then again, minds are shittier.
Have we a soul? A heart?
Have we a life?
What makes white white? What makes a paper, a paper?
Meanings are lost. The greats have perished.
Nonsense is deemed wise. Coherence easy.
I make no sense.
Fingers onto boards, random punches.
A heavy heart lightened by grammatical strictness.
All summed up in the space between essential and essence.
About to leave.
Entering fuckery. Embracing mood swings.
Italics are pitiful. A sign of self-assigned knowledge; bullshit.
Who are we to judge what's important and what's not?
Why change originality?
Why alter real feelings?
Why kill the genuine; and keep the prosthetic?
Plastics are wrong.