You have no unreal messages

What the fuck is happening with this fuck-world? I’m ending & I’m writing in English so that you can correct me. But I won’t do this for long. It’s violently critical. I watched the whole Twin Peaks recently, ’cause my childhood memories are really off my head. My mind-clock is somehow turned upside-down. Are there any rules in English? What I hate about foreign languages is that I must continuously think of different versions of the same shit-thought and then choose the right one (that appears to me). It’s not that I’m thinking something else, or something better, it’s just the same fucking thing wrapped in different colors. And I hate it. My favourite moment, moment as in feel or something, in this very language, is this s-i-c-k word, sick, sick joke, sick evidence. What was I trying to say? I forgot, but something else popped into my mind. Another thing I precisely hate about foreign languages is that I’m feeling wrong about any thing I’m writing. “It might be something, something else…” Why can’t I feel differently about anything? I love the word onto, and I use it with wrong meaning(s). I really dig it, like, love it. I have nothing to show you, nothing to tell you, nothing to nothing. What the fuck am I trying to live? I wish I could read more about you, more about living and caring. Nothing happens, eventually. I forgot something about dying. There was this amazingly captured phase about what this world really means, or is, in Twin Peaks: – What do you fear most, Mr. Briggs? – That the possibility of love is not enough.

It’s all about the possibility. People never welcome the possibility. The possibility of redemption. They don’t even think of it. They just want redemption. How is your life, your work? It must be something. And the something-world is more than the concrete-world. The main question regarding humans is: Why? I am everything that sounds like a cliché. I read about the riots over England. The Queen must be damaged. I don’t know what the fuck is happening, I told you. I don’t know what to choose and what to keep. What the fuck was in my mind? I only searched about the costs and there you have the answer. It’s useless. It’s not. And fuck it. I didn’t even ask him a thing, after I illuminated my mind with the pounds. Decisions, decisions. You know why I cannot believe in destiny? Because I have to take these fucking decisions. If it were like, this is your fucking life, you are a porn star, live it, fuck it, that’s what you’re going to be – then I would have taken into consideration (oh, this so scientific expression) the notion of destiny. Nothing is like, shit, I won’t bother. The Guardian is beginning to annoy me. Though it’s a pretty fucking cool newspaper. My mind is blurred by this cheap wine… I don’t know what to say anymore. I have to dig well and hard to find something to tell. ‘Cause I’m not doing much. Meaning nothing. I sleep like hell. I sleep during day-time, mainly. I think I have it. I cleared my mind after watching a documentary about LSD.

Is there an excuse for anything? Is there somehow an escape? We can lie ourselves. What part of your body isn’t broken yet? Today I’ve made a mistake: I’ve answered the phone. It called two times. I said, straight face: Yes? The answer was an ugly-noisy silence. And then I asked: Who the fuck is it? She asked if X is at home. I said, no, he isn’t, call later. Anyway, she asked me if I speak French. Again, I said yes (in French), and the call ended. I hate phones. Especially unknown phone calls. Sometimes I swear because you can’t, you really can’t be a presence. Sometimes I just have some possible final wishes: to drink a damn coffee and a damn wine with you at George V Hotel. And care about nothing. Sometimes I wish I could call you and meet you somewhere, in 10 minutes. And literally eat coffee. And sometimes I just go on. The same thing will keep us together, the same thing will tear us apart. Sometimes I think I fucking annoy you, and that’s because I no longer belong to what should be called your daily life. I feel I’m an intruder who keeps reminding you that life exists.

But we will always know something about each other. Something that will remain forever bright, forever distant.



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