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Untalented undiluted untitled:
There is a tree, fickle and removed, rewarded and nurtured by the decaying eminence of la convoitise -. Deceived (nefariously) by its own will; trapped betwixt the threshold of obsession and failure, pain and torturous joy, a joyless perpetuity. Aching tentacles, remote darkness, static white sound – she feels fornication, she feels gold, she is painless. “die, Die! Wicked tree!” Even the child notices the unpleasant differences. “Fall, fall, fall down into axiom!” “wicked words for the wicked child!” The child doubts anxiously, the child turns around, the child could not bare, it is not the end, it is over, it is disturbing, it is annoying, it deprived the heart, it comes back, it is falling endlessly, and it is mango suicide. “So go! Every thing is cold here now, it is silence, I don’t mind, I can suffer.” Turning back in time, maybe it is I who wronged, maybe it was time who deceived my journey of words, my mouth were sowed shut to my thoughts; I was naively surprise. The mellow tree continues to roam statically, so gentle, so peaceful, (against the shallow breeze and titan waves); it begs to move, it begs to be free. Suddenly the pleasant feeling turns to perpetual surprise, horrifying. |”pathetic fool!” “do not ask me what are my thoughts, my thoughts…., I do not know, I’ve taken them away into the dark… if only you could be my light.” “ my words were broken.” “They did not believe me.” So when was the last time you saw yourself? Those days that was somehow something from nothing. Maybe it is a fake photo, maybe it is a fake journal page, maybe my heart has turned black. thickend by the persuasive aroma of
