Oxygen
Twelve hours. Should get a piece from Istanbul. The airport is so full. I'm a kid, or maybe they are not already more. She is fun. I do not remember well. The plane leaves in half a day. The clouds blot Africa, and there's a tree every now and then. The plane lurches. I want my oxygen mask. I want you to suffocate me, intoxicate me. And as the plane falls apart can not hear people screaming. And the impact with the water is so sweet so sweet. Perhaps only a pool of blood will ransom. It is not like falling down stairs. Why is all confused and I'm so fragile so fragile. And I like to breathe the moments, because it remains only that. I'm just a sentimental fool, but somehow I did not save the soul. And the track is deserted and cigarettes are a white and shapeless heap at my feet. And perhaps it makes no sense to fall in love like a fool, and yet endure all the yelling. And it's hard when you think so quickly. "I give you a hand?" "No, no, I can go down alone." And there are places that make it more terrible childhood. I have always had many secrets. The past is a snail that leaves a trail of sticky, no? And I do not go more than perdermici, because nostalgia is killing me. And could you rape me in the morning air, and for me would be the same. It is to resist, because then you could do to me what you want. You might even see me cry, how come no one saw me, and if I will crumble your fault. And I can not breathe because the rest does not matter anymore. And I want to cut the crap, but I just have to live I just have to die. And it is the surprise, the routine is broken. Certainties, the coldness, the moral. All up in smoke, but it is a wall of paper, after all. And if you're born to burn, well, I have thoroughly fulfilled my task. No joke, because everything is always flat. The oxygen in the mood if you like killing you. It 'a bubble, which rises and empty what is no longer full. And I live in that bubble. Memory, dreams, all mixed. And maybe I dream too much, and I can not tell what is real. And I'm afraid to forget a face, and not to see him when I'm looking for. And the violence re-emerges in the words, in fact. The whip, the leather, in the broken skin. And someone leaves, but is silent and there is no god. And it is a wasted life, if anything, life would do the trick. It 's a wonderful evening, laughing, drinking, there is deluded. There's the same old house is still there, but the ghosts of the past are being held there. There was a hive once. And a little girl drowned. And the devil in the hallways. And the head was cut off and floated in the gutter. It is not skin, is more. Please do not do it. Do not. Do not.
not breathe. Click
