I want to hit one thousand people right in the face. Deep inside me, someone is searching for the solution for something.
I’m drinking from a bottle of gin on my kitchen floor. Alcohol runs like horses run. There is nothing special about me. Everything thought has already been, words are made up by someone else, nothing born only brought back. Maybe I’m breaking through myself to find something new or pure, maybe I’m flirting with death, maybe I’m tired of softness.
I’m hitting the wall after a longer flight than expected. Little places inside me voted I would be dead by now, little places inside of me have become so tired and dusty, made numb by time and complete neglect.
I wish there was a way to kill part of myself, or to sleep until the present is gone. I know that waking up would feel the same, because even though all things come to an end, nothing changes inbetween, does it?
Inside the shell of myself, behind green eyes lies nothing, twisting and pulling.
