6:39 p.m. - 2006-05-26
-
in the black death, she hides in her hut
a madman is like a robot, he keeps doing the same action, but each time he expects a different result.
i wake up everyday and go to work.
am i like the madman robot?
i even go earlier.
as dour as a troubadour.
no rhymes in pairs.
all songs in minor, captain major, order me to follow.
blasted diarrhea in my brain.
no appetite.
thoughts of an illness in my body.
writing in broken sentences because i can't sustain a thought long enough to put it down in words, these words fail me, but these symbols, these little phrases, they are abstract enough for my thoughts to latch and form shape, but they never become complete. they are parasites, little black worms tunneling...
when you're happy, you write little descriptions and they seem enough, because there's no need for you to feel more happy because you've written it out.
when you're sad, you write these little broken things, and they are never enough, because you can't dispel or ease the despair when they are written. they seem to become stronger, going on forever with each sentence.
freeeeeeee
this short word will cure you.
