Lastnightslotterynumbers

roller-coaster ride on the mood roller coaster. The head hurts, stretch before our eyes. Let's see where you get there.

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This is a kind of style loss

What really blog? And above all: what? The anonymity is not big enough for psychotherapy online. When writing on a rise of only their own narcissism. Result: boredom, deleted and unpublished content. What hope for resonance in the absence of life nourish you so that it's enough for that, so - for this? A reminder: at no time more Traffick, as the proverb quiz on sneakers Romantic. The stories and poems - almost nobody has read. This works in principle as well as tabloid journalism and that is terribly depressing. Perhaps this is something that blocks the letter. Simply too close to the disillusionment.

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illogical discrepancies, I mean ... what is there in the head and when that head is the only one - then it is a horror one. Read, spit upon themselves to doubt and feel the shift between the eyebrows. The terrible vertigo unauthorized grief. This one always a reason for everything, a permit - why not require a certificate, officially. To apply in urban Versorgungsmat, Tuesdays 10 to 11 The mixture in elementary German position with - himself What's this all about, the abyss. This is web as 1.0.

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sometimes it just hurts all

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nights of silent octopus

It was as if a veil hanging down to him. And the world was covered with a streaky gray. As if old cooking fat had been deposited in the sink and pulled strings - thin, streaky, semi transparent, unpredictable streaks, which enveloped the world, the People grumbled a liar, the time of regularity robbed. And so he stood, a blind helplessness, shoulders hanging way out of place would, at the same time as the arms away and deeper into the armpit, to hide in this ridiculously fragile joint. They had long since recognized its instability - hence the attempt to escape. With the shoulders, it was like love. One wanted to like in this armpit, snap the ball joint can be fixed, feel the regular heat, which tickles one's cheeks. And yet - we always looked through the dense tangle of wire, the small slices of cartilage, the ridiculously small link of the shoulder and arm, a foot wrong already cracked and swollen, and - if it went quite badly - fade. Just as the love just dies when it is pinched and squeezed and if the secrets to rise and swell and rush through the capillaries hidden, like a dream, which is sad because he stops and over and over to stop.
you had her belly pressed against his back, little sounds were heard from her throat to his ear and let his silent despair to a river that breaks from a great height by a rock wall. He felt this silent dialogue of his growing cold feet and his heart, wanted to go and complain at the same time the lack of suitable facilities had. He got up, walked down the dark corridor as a thief who has decided to rob his own apartment and then nothing will, as an old toothbrush and the sorrow that rises from the floor last. Through the bathroom window was the asthmatic breath of a street lamp that was ashamed of neon. Outside were noisy drunk and he did not know if they scream or he wanted to be one of them. Sometimes you want to leave a place that lies within oneself. And how a child can feel overwhelming their own inability to change. The schoolyard is an eternity, the inner city to the prison in which it has locked itself. In the mirror he saw a watery, red-rimmed eyes, on which he had lain. The fleeing Shoulders, the feverish brilliance of drowning in the mouth. He pressed his face against the mirror, until it seemed appropriate to gray, his tongue pressed against the mirror. He throwing the sink, until he thought he heard the pleas of the porcelain. He struck his head against the arrythmisch mirror frame. He did inflame the ridiculous invincible brain, the tension in his jaw bone should be discharged as lightning. He could hear the animal sound that pushed his way out of his mouth, an effeminate sound that almost mute, was at best weak. It was like a trembling of the vocal cords, a little tremolo that would indicate the basis of the general situation surrender. And yet, and yet redemption did not come. He wanted it to hurt. He just wanted it finally hurt that you could roll on the floor, for forgiveness, cry of love for himself, not only tolerate these dumb octopus, the tentacles of the unspeakable swung. This toxic stitch, this separation from the world, the streaks and the drifting, of itself, can only help against the pain and ridicule. Until dawn he sat and froze, staring. Embryonic feet pulled to the bottom, like a large cat on a too-small chair. As a spirit, which are no one and can not disappear. Like an old piece of pizza in the gutter. As the intact label of a jar shattered. He sat and stared at the milky sun, which condescended to warm the world, just not him. Just not him.