off-the-wallflower child

Life is a like grandiose Norse prose... Hence, we are Vikings! And gods.

My thoughts! Like an epileptic fit of hiccups. Hiccups hurt. Are also, spontaneous... And simultaneous... Simultaneous to my breath... This foul trick! I am alive. I, now, remember this. To be! Or not to be! Suicide, a do or die affair! To do! Or not to do! So... To do? Or to die? That is the question. To be, bye.

Fuck, what do you mean "what"? The elephant in the room. The son of a bitch. What? The elephant is also a dog? LOL. What? As I consciously try to decipher what my unconscious unconsciously thinks... Jesus, one too many consciousnesses... What was my point? I forget. How my mind wanders... You know, dirty and barefoot, to nowhere.

Masked in leather, society cuts us off... Massacres us. A ritualistic dismemberment of its members... An orgiastic gore! I lost my head and you lost your heart... And they lost their souls and we lost our spirits... The grand death of us. But who shall give testimony to this ceremony? For alas, now, we are dead. And worse, on our writhed corpses is the realisation... After death, in our eyes and on our mouths of this, they say, felony... And of: "Now what?"