From The Place of Dead Roads by William Burroughs:

"Time is a resource. Time runs out. The most basic problem facing any culture is the conservation and disbursement of time. Human time is measured in terms of human change. So the most flagrant time-wasting may minimize change and thus conserve time.

"The English dictum of never going too far in any direction is actually a time-saving expedient, ill advised to be sure when it may be necessary to go too far in all directions for a bare fighting chance of survival. Utopian concepts step from a basic misconception as to our mission here. So many snares and dead ends. Nietzsche said, "Men need play and danger. Civilization gives them work and safety".

"Some cultures cultivated danger for itself, not realizing that danger derives from conflicting purposes. Happiness is a by-product of function. Those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war. This is the flaw in all utopias. A society, like the individuals who compose it, is an artifact designed for a purpose. As to what life may be worth when the purpose is gone..."

Does insecurity come before or after doubt? Can devotion be compatible with independence? How can two seperate "I's" merge into one all-encompassing "we"?

When frightened, you seek to reinforce your sense of individuality. "This is me, and I'm doing fine, albeit in a slightly inconsistent way", you whisper to yourself, again and again, making it sound like some kind of incomprehensible mantra.

"I'm whole, even though I tend to believe that my better half is out there somewhere. I've been in love with shadows and ghosts and strangers, and the occasional real person, too. Yes, it's mostly been a solitary journey, but not without its joys."

Then silence. We've watched our utopias dissolve into dust, one by one. If love is the only antidote to loneliness, where does freedom fit into the exchange, and does our happiness truly depend upon it?

What is the answer to the eternal question?
What might be the question, if the answer is no?
And what if our alibis coincide?

Like drugs, philosophy transports you to an artificial universe. There, amidst the hidden traps and dangerous creatures, a discerning traveler may find innumerable tools to make everyday life on Earth more meaningful, inspirational and tolerable.

Walk around in littered streets. Crowds caught in a pre-election frenzy. Give us a break, not another break down. The ship is sinking. Maybe I've lost you for good this time.

The inhabitants of Planet Chaos are debating the laws of gravity. Beware all audience-seeking strategies. There is only one method for exorcising loneliness: you will first have to sacrifice your impenetrable realm of melancholic serenity as a sign of goodwill.

From a short story by Jeanette Winterson
(published in last Saturday's Guardian):

"Once upon a time there was a polar bear. He had nowhere to live so he came to live in your head. You started to think polar bear thoughts about icyness and wilderness. You went shopping and looked at fish. At night you dreamed your skin was fur. When you got in the bath you dropped through nameless waters deeper than regret. You left the cold tap running. You flooded the house. You dived into winter with no clothes on. You sought loneliness. You wanted to see the sun rise after a night that lasted as long as all the things you have done wrong. You wanted to see the sun come up and no one to be near you. You wanted to look out over the rim of the world. But you live in the city and the rest is gone."

(...)

"What's the difference between a dinosaur and a human being? A dinosaur destroys everything - but doesn't call it progress."

It's hard, when you suddenly learn how to feel again. The joy and pain of being weak, vulnerable, alive; of watching the sunset as if it were the first time. Eyes wide open struggle to get it all in. Bodies of wax melting under each other's heat.

There we go again, looking for the secret recipe, the magic spell that will grant our shared illusion a speck of eternity. When the night drops its gentle veil upon us, all our wasted moments become one before they are drowned in the bittersweet tears of nostalgia.

Don't leave me now, I'm blind without you, the sun is no longer enough...

Sometimes I can't stop wondering what hurts more: our words or our silences. We stand paralyzed, expressionless faces mask soundless screams as we watch the chasm growing between us. Fragments of an envisioned future scattered on the floor- has all hope of communication been lost?

An ashen cloud covers the city; flames lit the battles raging inside us. Agoraphobic souls in a state of emergency. Shall I give up on you before the dream has had a chance to materialize, should I go back to what i know and feel safe around?

After all the great wars, our armour is filled with holes, yet the iron has become one with our skin. Every time you remove a blood-soaked piece, i sink helplessly into a sea of agony and expectation.

A cynic that falls in love is like a walking paradox. A pessimist, who begins to paint the future in bright colours, has probably lost all touch with a once solid reality. At night, cicadas struggle to cover the noise of passing cars. This city's inhabitants have long given up
on sleep.

Did you think I was gone for good- and did it matter to you? For a while, I assumed I had nothing more to say, yet it seems I've been granted another fleeting promise of inspiration. A lot has changed, though I'm still haunted by innumerable ghosts. Would you care to be my imaginary audience once again?

The past few weeks have been so unexpectedly wonderful, it was hard to sustain my faith in the futility of life. Unable to find a reason for despair, I was inclined to mourn for the transient nature of desire, but all my attempts were spoiled by the stubborn and totally ungrounded belief that even better times lie ahead.

Is this an end of an era?, you may wonder, but I've got no answers for you today. Only one thing is certain: things have changed, perhaps for good, even though the future remains conveniently out of sight. Am I ready to let go? Ι think so.

Something has occurred, something much awaited for and yet totally unexpected. I was walking home one day, as it suddenly hit me. I didn't realize it at the time; no, not until the stars began to shine brighter than ever and the world took on the colour it takes only when...you know.

My mind is elsewhere now. I feel the urge to walk away- still, I suspect I'll miss you. I'll miss the depth and the sorrow and the charred expectations; I'll miss the unattainable promises of hope and the pain caused by their collapse; I'll miss your voice as it whispered my name, and your face, since I had to construct it from memory a million times or more; I'll miss you, wherever you go, whoever you become, and however unbridgeable the gap between us grows...

How little time it takes to turn a whole life upside down...There's nothing wrong with that, my voice of reasoning whispers. Is it all right if I stop dreaming of you for a while? Even if I say goodbye now, do I not deserve the chance to be spellbound all over again?

Another apparition seems to have taken your place. The replacement occurred smoothly and almost involuntarily- or rather, I did my best to resist the metamorphosis, but the desire to be transformed was stronger than the will to remain unchanged.

Of course I'm sceptical- what did you expect? Everyday realities may change, yet old habits die hard and I was never one to completely soak myself in the waters of certainty. They say to love is to doubt what you believe the most...or is it vice-versa?

We spent the whole winter fantasizing about it, and now it's here. When fear mingles with excitement, all you can do is hold your breath and hope for the best. How will it end, you wonder, before it has even begun to unfold. Do we try to make this work, or do we let go whilst there's still time to escape unscathed?

For no reason at all, you give a different twist to a late-night conversation by dwelling on the futility of love. What if we've become way too distant and cynical, you ask, what if we're no longer capable of true affection? What if, in anticipating the inevitable ending, we bring it about all too soon?

You repeat yourself, going around in vicious circles- the same old questions plaguing the same, sad souls. Then it kicks in. Thunders of awe and paranoia. Is this it, you whisper while you lie in the dark, longing for sleep to drown your ghosts of agony and desire in the mist of oblivion, yet struggling to remain awake so that none of these desolatingly miraculous moments goes to waste.

There's a hole in my mind shaped just like your shadow. Eyes half closed in an expression of bewilderment- or is it boredom? Did I ever truly listen to you, I wonder; did I ever see you, or was it merely the projection of my own sense of lack painting the promise of a miracle upon your forehead?

What was it that made me feel this way about you, and could it happen again? I always speak of freedom, and yet, I do not really wish to die alone. The process of sharing could soften our hard shells and make us more human than we can ever hope to become by wrapping our dreams in solitude and ideological cellophane- if only we didn't turn it into an ordeal, with our rules and cheap lies and hidden expectations.

What is the source of this atavistic fear, and will we ever be able to overcome it? When the sun shines, we find no time for poetry- is sorrow truly more precious than joy? Repeat your questions like a mantra, until you find the answers you're seeking or until your ears become accustomed to the constant murmur of existential agony.

Abolish certainty- or let us out of this futile struggle, before we wither and die. Doubt's restless spirit has stained your skin, it has spread its roots inside the deepest core of your being, which may or may not explain why your own thoughts seem to rebel against you.

How can love be freed of all rules when our lives crumble under governing principles? I've spent too much time on the surface- would you dare to leave security's ship behind, would you dare to take a plunge and explore the serpentine depths of desire?

So you've found something new, but you still can't let go of the old. Hold my hand, I'm tired of taking, please help me learn how to give again. Bodies made of wax, minds made of steel and fire.

Your multiplicity of faces is driving me mad. We long for freedom, yet we can't stand being alone- such is the fate of a sad, strange species called human.

From Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail:

"Objective Journalism is hard to come by these days. We all yearn for it, but who can point the way?...Don't bother to look for it here- not under any byline of mine; or anyone else I can think of. With the possible exception of things like box scores, race results, and stock market tabulations, there is no such thing as Objective Journalism. The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms."

Athens is a different place in the summer...or perhaps we become different people. Work is a mess, but never more chaotic than our daily social interactions. Transform dull office hours into something almost tolerable by taking short, sunny coffee-breaks in the park. Wash all kinds of pressure away by diving into the sea every weekend. Dream of untamable passion, even when none is around.

Sometimes I think of you, sometimes I don't, sometimes I'm content simply to share intimate silences with strangers. If you were here, I'd take you for a walk inside the city's twisted labyrinths. I wouldn't hold your hand- keeping it casual. At night we'd tear our darkest thoughts apart. Now that you've become merely the vision of a lonely winter evening, I dare to look your shadow in the eye, and it stares back into my soul.

No one wants to die alone and yet, could death be any lonelier than our lives, the way we drag them around tied to the masts of inexpressible sorrows? Could it be any lonelier than these desperate calls for help, echoing behind our smiling faces? Could it be any lonelier than love, as we carelessly light wild fires in the virgin forests of innocence?

Last night, I said it all in one drunken monologue, then I remembered why I'm only drawn to the people who suffer in solitude. I went to bed at dawn, feeling exhausted yet unsatisfied, a voice in my head screaming for more- more laughter, more pain, more poetry, more violence, more creeping paranoia and midnight summer walks and dreams of absolution.

We shall not spend our nights crouching behind defensive walls, we shall not waste our days following orders; although we no longer believe in unity, compassion or forgiveness, we were not made to sail those stomry seas alone.

A whole eternity lies in the space between unless and until, the life of myriad possibilities depends upon the right choice of words. Was it intentional, she wondered, was there a hint of promise latent in this till that knew no less, or was it purely accidental?

She expected to be let down- wisdom acquired from experience- and so she'd learned to let others down before they got the chance to disappoint her. How passé, to be pure and innocent at this day and age; how difficult, to change back your aura of cynicism into sweet words and trust and good intentions...

From Black Spring by Henry Miller:

"Have you ever sat in a railway station and watched people killing time? Do they not sit a little like crestfallen angels- with their broken arches and their fallen stomachs? Those eternal few minutes in which they are condemned to be alone with themselves- does it not put umbrella ribs in their wings?"

Sometimes I wonder if the whole of normal everyday life, with its pursuit of happiness and all the rest, is nothing but an- intentional or not- attempt to imitate a drug-induced experience. Don't believe what they tell you; all paradises are artificial, and why should it make a difference? While you're asleep, dreams are in no way less real than waking consciousness.

Time wasted is not always wasted time. Last night, I watched you attack invisible enemies again. Do your eyes still look the same when you cry? Trying to stay in control- that's the nature of our game; our passions licked by the flames of the will to power. If love was ever truly unconditional, who would be able to refuse it?

Allow me to whisper your name one last time, then silence. I'll walk away, never to come back or disturb your sleep again. My eyes will remain dry- I've got no more tears in store for you.

It's been a while, I can't even recall what you smell like. Though I'd easily bring down the barriers to let you occupy my mind once more, and wouldn't I sacrifice my sanity for a few moments inside that devastatingly familiar madness you created?

Inspiration in flesh and bone, my desire for you a power that knew no limits, wings made of pain and sorrow- we flew, nonetheless. Goodbye, I tell your fading image, what am I without your impregnable presence, who am I without your subtle touch?

Tonight I might truly weep for the demise of all ideals, the sweet destruction brought about by the fallacy of pathos, in the absence of which life is safe, content and forgettable.

When I was 13, I planned to have the word "freedom" tattooed all over my body in each one of the world's languages . Later on, I realized I was at risk of finding myself symbolically imprisoned within the confines of my own freedom- just like every other supposedly free person on this planet.

Since then, I've come to accept the impossibility of total disengagement, the trap latent in the fantasy of independence, the slavery underlying ambitious declarations of liberty. I play games with my expectations, I live on sunshine and see-through dreams, I waste my energy on obsessions born purely out of an insatiable need for acceptance, I sell my soul in exchange for cheap imitations of attachment, and life goes on, or it seems to go...

A female centaur, her long hair tussled by the wind, stands naked
in a dream. What do centaurs believe in? asks a disembodied voice. Concentration moving further and further out of reach. Effortlessly becoming addicted to whatever distraction is available, carelessly wasting our youth.

Black thoughts, black dreams, black poems springing from polluted minds. A scent of spring and smog fills the air- what a joy, to be a natural born denier on such a beautiful day. Please act as if you 're satisfied so we can finish this show. Disillusionment disguised into fake desire. Words wrapped in cruelty, when all we seek is a sign of tenderness, a hesitant expression of affection.

Pretend you're free, detached and indifferent, then weep in the dark, quietly so as not to wake the warm body sleeping next to you, alien skin barely touching your arm. You'll never know what lies behind the outer shell, because you'll never find the courage to ask. Now you have learned to shed your tears inwardly- now you're transformed into a vessel of flesh that's gradually filled up with salty water and diluted memories.

She wasn't a beautiful woman, though most people would find her hard features attractive. "I love all my men", she used to say, with a smile that was both childish and lustful. Sometimes people would call her cheap, but she'd never do anything for money; no, she was after a different kind of reward.

"Men are my antidepressant, their mere existence fills my nights with pleasure and my days with expectation", she'd tell her best friend, who was a lesbian and thus didn't exactly share her friend's priorities.

"It doesn't matter if they're handsome or ugly, intelligent or naive, ambitious workaholics or compulsive daydreamers; they all shine in their own way; they all unfold like magical parchment under the eye of a discerning reader".

"They're not always easy to deal with- sometimes they're inexcusably irritating-, yet I must admit that most of them treat me well. After all, they have to behave if they wish to keep seeing me- and why wouldn't they? My only vice is that I refuse to see my body as a piece of property, to be owned or conquered or even preserved, and my men come to respect this, after a while.

Her friend would nod absentmindedly once in a while- her chosen path towards emancipation and fulfillment took her through an entirely different realm; she had, however, become accustomed to such confessions, and even learned to almost sympathize...

To lead a borrowed life. Escape saved purely for weekends and holidays. Dream if they let you dream; if they don't, lose yourself in fantasies of silenced explosions.

Love, can love ever be true? Passion spiced up with powder, a heightening of the senses achieved by chemical means. Let me lie by your side, surrounded by the ghosts of forsaken expectations.

Don't worry, we'll make it to the other side, scathed and flame-licked, yet alive. We are the ones doomed to survive this war, and maybe the one after it, too; we are the ones destined to pollute their polished reality with infusions of intolerable cynicism bleeding from incurable wounds.

From Tropic of Capricorn:

"I reached out for something to attach myself to- and I found nothing. But in reaching out, in the effort to grasp, to attach myself, left high and dry as I was, I nevertheless found something I had not looked for- myself. I found that what I had desired all my life was not to live- if what others are doing is called living- but to express my self. I realized that I had never had the least interest in living, but only in this which I am doing now, which is parallel to life, of it at the same time, and beyond it.

What is true interests me scarcely at all, nor even what is real; only that interests me which I imagine to be, that which I had stifled every day in order to live...From childhood on I can see myself on the track of this spectre, enjoying nothing, desiring nothing but this power, this ability. Everything else is a lie- everything I ever did or say which does not bear upon this. And that is pretty much the greatest part of my life."

Space was never on our side, and now time isn't, either. How can the ones we adore be transformed into strangers with familiar faces? Is it a gradual process, or does it happen overnight? And can it be reversed?

Love ends, and the emptiness it leaves behind feels like the loss of a body part. Soon enough, you learn to live without it; you might even experience a certain sense of relief, especially if it was a sore and painful part, at the time. Yet the absence remains.

So you devote your time in futile exchanges and excruciatingly temporary attachments. You employ whatever means possible to cover the gap- things, places, people-, but nothing ever fills it up, and will you ever let go let go let go let go let go again?

Our place in the sun. It's shrinking. Maybe life does revolve around sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, so far as you interpret each component as a general and pretty symbolic category.

Under "sex", include all types of human relations; let the term "drugs" denote the substances we use on a daily basis, either to be cured from ailments or just to make ourselves capable of social interaction; "rock'n'roll" shall represent every form of self-expression, from artistic creation to drunken monologues and fashion statements. Forgive me if this makes no sense- the past few weeks have been way too stressful for poetic sentences or metaphysical conclusions.

Are you still listening- and why? Sometimes I think of you purely to relieve my eyes of chronic dryness, my heart of perpetual iciness, my mind of the nightmares sustained by an inability to find a purpose in the supposedly meaningful rituals of everyday life.

Under his mattress, he keeps crystallized memories of hope. They look like diamonds, though only the naive are fooled into buying them. He strictly accepts cash stamped by the future's dutiful clerks. When left in the sunlight, the crystals dissolve, leaving nothing but a sweet smell of incinerated possibilities.

Admiration leads the flock of the weak. Sit high on your throne, while I worship your footsteps' marks on wet sand; they begin to fade so I whisper, please, don't let me fall again. Yet you're trapped in silence, no sound shall ever reach your ears; remote as an iceberg, ever since I decided to entomb you inside my least realizable dream.

Humanity was scandalized: He'd committed the unforgivable sin of telling the truth on TV. Ask me to come find you and I will, like an insect hopelessly drawn to the light, no you won't, no you won't, no you won't... Perhaps I never learned to give up on lost cases, perhaps they never taught me how to resist Hope's ravaging lure.

Do you think it takes strength to stay alive; that going on necessitates courage, when this path has become almost impossible to endure and every step feels more strenuous than the previous one?

Do you believe we're heroes, in a way, us melancholic freaks, natural-born pessimists, followers of misery and masters in self-pity, just because we don't give up on this world, just because we slowly make our way towards work every day, engage in regular sessions of small talk, wear that smiling mask and try not to complain too much?

How convenient, for us to be labeled martyrs, to accept a reassuring pat on the back once in a while, and withstand those customary glances of feigned understanding.

Still, to stand strong is to struggle against monotony's invincible armies, actually daring to alter things; to be courageous means to assail whatever blocks your path, instead of succumbing to invisible pressure or simply choosing to go with the flow, utterly passive, unable to resist, incapable of putting an end to this torture.

After all, it is so much easier to settle for what's there, to bow your head low and quietly bear the burden, rather than make an effort to escape, rebel, attack the codes of conduct, which threaten to asphyxiate your spirit, even if that means surrendering life itself.

From Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller:

"I thought when the drums started it would keep up forever. I expected to see people fall out of the boxes or throw their hats away. There was something heroic about it and he could have driven us stark mad, Ravel, if he had wanted to. But that's not Ravel. Suddenly it all died down. It was as if he remembered, in the midst of his antics, that he had on a cut-away suit. He arrested himself. A great mistake, in my humble opinion. Art consists in going the full length. If you start with the drums, you have to end with dynamite, or TNT. Ravel sacrificed something for form, for a vegetable that people must digest before going to bed."

Sitting alone in crowded rooms. Disassociation. Why let this morbid dream unfold? Sad jokes and devastating echoes. Don't you ever wish you could disappear? Remember, when we were still innocent, our eyes wide open to this world's wonders, our arms eager to embrace whatever tomorrow brought...

We slept deeply and peacefully until the sun rose to make our faces glisten with expectation. Do you know, now, why you get out of bed every morning? Our hatred feels timid, our love disinterested, our excitement shallow. Not even the sweet smoke of denial suffices to disguise the stink of abandonment.

When the winter is over, we'll slowly gather our resources and search for the winding road towards hope. Another year has passed, but the only thing we've learned is that life and death are not always mutually exclusive.

"I could probably hate you quite easily, but I don't think I'll ever find you dull" said the note on the windowsill. Inspiration hides in cheap alibis and unfinished phrases. What does the wind know of desperation? Fallen pillars, a reconciliation of sorts.

If all the stars went out, would the world lose its memory? The flames of rage flirt with the ruins of desire. Repressed fantasies of serenity metamorphose into terrifying nightmares. Staying alive just to watch infinity bleed like lava from the gaping wounds of time.

They talked for hours and hours. Words took them on a journey to the other side of reason, then gravity pulled them back to the ground. The most trivial questions led to discussions about life, death and human nature in general. How can there be space for mundanity in mirages of shared paranoia?

Is this a way to let me know you want out of this, to remind me I made it all up, she wondered. Or do you truly fear my mental depiction of you is so vulnerable to the cold breeze of reality, so far removed from the tangible you that any contact with the truth is bound to disappoint?

And yet, his proposition made perfect sense. This miraculous bubble they inhabited was meant to be preserved at all costs. Together, they stood out of time, unassailable by the forces of mortality, degradation and decay; they were granted a glimpse of eternity, a chance to live an ideal, instead of merely envisioning it.

Theirs was the place where fairy tales end up after the children fall asleep, content in their innocence; the land of happily ever afters, where princesses never grow old, kings never lose touch with wisdom and justice, passion never fades, the Good triumphs and evil wizards are banished once and for all.

Still, why was she so eager to dive into this world of ice, crushing its delicate structures with her weight; to drink greedily from its enchanted springs, depriving its haunted mountains of their mystery; to touch its immaculate core with bare hands; to scream with joy and anguish in its spider-webbed forests, scaring its magical creatures away; to enliven its solemn corridors with music, colours, tears, blood, sweat, laughter, dreams, fears, hopes, desires, expectations and all the painfully wonderful things, which make human existence the devastating wonder it is- even if that meant surrendering her one and only fragment of perfection?

If to welcome something new means to stand naked under the sun, eager to forsake all principles of rational thought simply to pursuit a fleeting reflection of blissful anguish, then who are you and what do you stand for?

If to embrace is to let the barriers fall, if to love means to consider yourself worthy of devotion, if to forgive is to offer yourself a minuscule piece of much longed-for absolution, then whom do you seek and why do you still sail those stormy seas alone?

Doubt tears and mangles and scalds the flesh. Statues dance on the graves of their makers- is immortality a privilege of creators or their creations themselves? Would you want your name to outlive the seeds of your imagination, or vice versa? Where does vanity transform into the deep existential quest for durability, the timeless, stubborn, all-too-human need to defy death itself?

We're running out of hope, you and I. But still. It's possible to see why it might all be for the best. Keeping a distance so we'll never come to hate each other. The walls are crumbling in. The room is cold. The wolves of doubt roam free- I sleep at night.

We're running out of time. It's true. Sometimes I struggle even to recall your face. I trace your shadow's outline with my fingers, and feel the darkness settling in my heart. You're not the one to blame. I'm not complaining. Stories built in the future fall apart.

The string between us, heavy like a magnet. Opposite poles not destined to come close. Oblivion paints a mask on every corner. The ghosts of empty memories grow strong. Promise to dream of me, and I'll protect you from all the terrors hiding deep in me.

Learning to drive is like readjusting to a new body. Getting to know where it starts and where it ends. Exploring its abilities. Becoming accustomed to its weaknesses and shortcomings. Discovering its joys and dangers, limits and possibilities.

Wearing a second skin makes you clumsy, at first. Try glancing at mirrors to see if it fits. Probe with your fingers to find out where it hurts. Remember that pain and pleasure are inseparable. Keep your mind on the road, your hands on the wheel. Resist the temptation to close your eyes in fear.

Learning to feel is like readjusting to a new soul. Peel off the layers of hardened skin. Press the knife into warm flesh to watch it bleed. When stuck in emotional dead-ends, use your fists to bring down the walls. Resist the temptation to scream if the brakes are broken. To die on the fast lane is to leave this world with a smile on your face.

Silence. It's freezing cold outside, and raining. Images of a reality too fragile to be taken seriously. Late-night drunken conversations with strangers lead to the realization that nothing is ever truly left behind. Memories wrapped in tattered excuses, carried in a worn-out bag that gets heavier every day.

Those mornings always smell of solitude and unfinished sentences. To mature is to replace your soft shell with an impermeable one. Behind the walls, your screams remain unheard. Wear the mask. Smile politely. Weave the tapestry of hope around you, climb the steep staircase of expectation again, even though you're destined to fall, for there is no other way to make existence tolerable.

Keep your head high, all is not lost as long as you can laugh and weep and dream and experience, as long as your eyes are wet and the blood runs hot in your veins, as long as you can touch and be touched, love and be loved, hurt and be hurt, as long as the world resembles a vast, terrifying jungle full of monsters, thrills and revelations.

Strictly speaking, I'm not the one to blame, I was just made like this. Eternally incomplete, always missing the point, perpetually restless. Seeking the hidden pleasure behind the veils of self-inflicted pain. I say the wrong things to the wrong people, so that the bitter taste of regret never leaves my mouth.

A humorless protagonist in my life's cheesy tragedy. To avoid being left alone with my self, I fill my days with strange faces, I am drawn to the warmth of unfamiliar bodies, which leaves me frozen inside. At night I like to walk in the hostile city's unlit streets. Too afraid to die, I am content simply to flirt with death's shadow.

What is worse, to suffer in silence or to silence all sufferance? If I scream, will you come and scare my nightmares away? Dare to pity me, and I'll laugh in your face. All the lonely people belong nowhere, and that's the only answer there is.

Don't say a thing, I understand. Denial is the key to the core of your being. No thank you, I'm safe and happy in my little cell, you insist; the walls begin to melt so you lie down and bury your face in your hands; from a distance it looks almost as if you were making love to the floor; it could be the beginning of a new existence, only your tears are fake and the marble is barren.

Mercy, the old man can hardly remember the beginning. Show some compassion, young ones- do not ask for the end of the tale. Pure sunlight, would you not give up all your aspirations for a delicate uncontaminated beam? Whole continents are sinking in the oceans of expansion, humanity itself stinks of rotting ambitions and insatiable greed. Please, wait for me before you cut the cord, we can still make this death worth dying for.

Your hopes seek to fly, but you've learned to cut their wings before they're old enough to rebel; instead, you let them carry the weight of broken dreams and accumulated disappointments. Carve the same word on your palm every single night, then lick the wound. Blood may taste like iron, but at least it is warm, it is full of life, and it's yours to the last drop.

"You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements.

(...)

"The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, invention, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.

(...)

"One day, when he reached saturation, I would tell him how he almost made us lose interest in passion by his obsession with the gestures empty of their emotions, and how we reviled him, because he almost caused us to take vows of chastity, because what he wanted us to exclude was our own aphrodisiac- poetry."

Anais Nin