The space between cigarettes is a period for dark incubations.
Pleasure is happieness's wayward sister. She's loose and frivolous.
I grow cancer for bleak despair. My offspring will be cut out of me. Comfort is death assured.
I pull the petals from flowers just to hear them speak a single glimmer of truth.
"...The task of the right eye is to peer into the telescope, while the left eye peers into the microscope."
The bushes and trees grow over the garden wall with curiosity.
Windows are doorways for light.
Addictions are the doomed vestiges of optimism.
Personal wish: To have intimate access to everyones dirty mind.
Luxury is suffering in isolation. Like perfect zero it's almost impossible.
I was a spider hugging a spider all legs enclasped around the other. My skin crawled with delicious revulsion. Eyes staring into eyes.
I follow my own leadership.
Foucault drenched in poetry.