A time to live, A time to die, A time to paralyze

I no longer know how to talk ! – A.R.
If I speak, I am condemned. If silence, I am damned – J.V.

I become a moss-covered bark.

Well, there are always drugs. I am too weak and too strong for that. They don’t know who I am. I’m Sophie. I’m Hugo. I stood there in the silent exploding church. Five years ago, I’m three hundreds. I’m Remedios, with a refined relentless sense of initiative. I’m painful Esteban. Young and horny and frustrated. I’m Alba, Clara and Rosa, all of them, animals angels of tenderness. Then I am Esteban again, the other one, mad, shrinking. If I’m Santiago…

for me, are there at least some violets ?

I am Vincent, who shouts “less human”, sleeps in a coffin. I am Cloud, failed in many ways, except that’s not true. The yellowness of his hair. The blue in his eyes. The six paths of pain. All of childhood tales. Transcendence. Courage and False.

Ah, all singing, all dancing crabs. B tastes good. I laugh my ass off at your “I’m beautiful in every single way”. You’ve grown. To be a sad thing. And you, a closet of clothes. A point on the hair map, gone bad, expired. I’m an abandoned child. In every single way.

I, Agrael. Now I’m Raelag. Through the eternal gates, purify. But then I know not worth it. Wonder if there is fire somewhere. Isabel is a bitch, Kant’s infernal one. Purpose of mine, what now, how ? I just don’t see the sky. Freedom tastes bitter. Beauty and sadness.

Bad cards. Love must be reinvented. I raised. Victory is a cruel mistress. I lost, most of the time.

Doesn’t change a thing. Nothing poisons me. Or not. Can’t die, anyway. Just lay there listen to thousand of bugs, crawling beneath my skin. My body, old and weary. My heart, race to its stop. It made the angels impatient. Waiting at my door, they threw sweetened temptations. Told them, eh, shouldn’t try so hard. Yes, nothing left. But remembrance ? also nothing from the start.

I’m dry. Of laughters and tears. There is no first. There is no dream. Time begins to pour on the iron can. In drops. Tic.. Tac.. Tic.. Tac.. Tic.. Tac… Black, smelly. Under the knives of the torturers, I sigh. Please, rid me of hope.


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