Never an honest world, never a promised tomorrow. Well, never mind.
Upon a day, a while wherefore pain and company, it’s brother dear, come silently.
No eye of fate, this brain has gloomy fear, and this heart has hued bearing changing passions.
Now I’m nothing, 1956. My own mind, the war. Angelic clothes full of tears. When I was a kid, it was better cause I was sorry.
“I’m just smashed. Whatever happy moments I have are subtracted from my innermost feeling- my anxiety, my indecisiveness. I can’t lead this life. It has instances where happiness flashes while the other times I’m just swimming with the tide but it turns the minute I catch the drift. Why can’t the water just pick me up and deliver me to the finish line after which I could just freely screw myself up, blare my noises wildly. Why am I young for all the good stuff? Like those decisions and benders and self-destructive behavior. I can see that happiness is taken away in a minute, because that next minute you know more and this extra knowledge destroys the now false shine of momentous morphine of the body, and the morphine of the mind just because it doesn’t conform to facts. I’ll disagree with all moral ethics that I’ve been pushed into believing. It’s all mainstream and plain, bland, bleak, normal with no wave of personal goodness. But I don’t want to think I’m bad. I’m only what I’m trying to be until finally I am tired. After I get tired all I have new is a blacker tone of nothingness. Look at me now, I’m glad because all I say, all I do- everything I do- is true to myself, a human under higher powers. It’s an endless bummer to have a good mind. You get hooked on the scene of depression and the torment is ingeniously genuine and not some made up reason to not be bright. People elsewhere will have to realize that it’s not about us, it’s about forgetting us. Forget about us.”
Impulse is always stronger and prouder than logic and people have wrote with it until they felt tired by the waves of wild wind running across the silent evenings, whistling and fading in and out of the remains of the performance and the stage of the weariness showed by the kings and the queens over weekends in the notorious world. Still the radio blazes with the honeyed music as the lights drowse and ripple surrounding elements, some sway to the gentler fall of the glowing moon and cruise to the poetry around. The balconies wet, ropes twirling around swings like a whirlwind, the play of the trues of bad age heralded by the residents documenting their existence through monuments festooned with roses embracing the grunge that rested on the railings and the trees that lined up linearly to hat the ground below them and shimmer the water that fell from spell to spell in between spells of rain. Pulling over your soul to envision sections of design and gaze and to agree that in spectator-ship, there’s no last anything, everything lasts. This may as well be the wonderfully temporary influence of the earth’s youth and its flair of assuming experience.