I got a molotov cocktail


and I smoke my cigarette in style.

I work too hard, smoke like a chimney, party like an animal and am too far ahead in extremities for anyone to catch up.

No wonder I need long walks in the dead of the night. Feeling the rustle of fallen leaves, dried to a bone.

I eat alone. Most days i do.

I occupy myself with work when I shouldn't. I live, so that I may feel pain. The pain tells me I'm alive. It brings new perspectives and appreciation which I might lose if I just coasted.

It's not that I don't care, its just that I care too deeply to want to start anything.

Stopping makes me feel weak. For a day in which i don't speak, I understand more then , the beauty of thought.

It's not that I don't think, its just that I immerse myself in thought. Carelessly, attention rapt, knuckles pale.

It's not that you are not beautiful, it's more so because you are achingly so.

It's a kind of je ne sais quoi.

It's not that the wine isn't good enough, its just because it reminds me of blood.

It's not that butterflies are hard to catch, its just that they are fragile.

I do it tough, I do it as tough as it can be done.

I hate but I can't pull away.

I want to believe, but I see things in black, white and pastel tones of grey. Hardness, cynical beings are my fascination.

There is no try. There is no do. There is only acceptance.

We are what we make ourselves to be, vicariously living for something we can't even put our finger on.

Sometimes, its not complicated, it's just a fear of reception.

I love parcels. They are uncomplicated, come from a far away land and yet, you know exactly what it contains.

I don't have faith because I see no need for it.

I remind things that I should forget, those that I shouldn't, I carve them in stone and keep them in my pocket.

I smoke too much. Wait, I said that already.