there is no reason for such things, although sometimes i blame myself, which constantly circles me back to my perfectly empty nature. my head wearieв and fells to think of it. ‘why are you so mean?’ – he asks, as though to mean ‘you are very full of pain,’ or sadness,

something worse without any dignity, disappointment. & i keep replying, hoping to tell him of my illness, the disorder, the empty kissable milk jet light of everlasting eternity’s true emptiness.

and besides, what could be truer? 

in a gleaming movie inside my own mind i am soft. like a dove, some poor sentient noticing being. the idea feels strong and true. im shimmering and laughing at this thought, till it gets interrupted by the sunken, gleaming silver of the blade. its limerence is striking,

it swells under my heart distorting itself into a familiar particle, camouflaging itself as part of me, although i recognize its presence as a half-mournful lamentation of pain. softness wrapped in tragic shawls, enough to make you cry. knives flashing beneath the folds,

whatever. the cruelty of it all is almost astonishingliberating

he asks me, why are you so mean? 

its the raving bloody book of dreams of the cursing world full of suits, dishonesties, and written agreements. i write my name in cypher, for as such for it to not be mine. i think of my Afterlife as an act of endless recompensations through a milli multitrillion fold in aeons and aeons of dead karma time. i ask myself

what for? all i did was write.

my imagination points at its own obvious errors, my words understand themselves in ways that i cannot.

why are you so mean?

i confirm within myself that i will reap. swigging from the bottle i underpay the driver. he says nothing, for better or for worse. i write it down the next day disregarding the respectful silence he held as i eyed his hamsa ikon. he adjusted it silently & prayed. 

which to me seemed like he bended over a sandwich for it to not want to eat him. he asked me then, why are

you so sad mean?

the errors of my messages and their timings point at all the other things ive written in the meantime elsewhere. accumulating the amount, it couldve been a book, or worse, a series of such. worst case scenario, they all get sold and the dismantling work pays off in its true and gruesome form of materialistic relief. 

“i can finally afford to buy my own coffee.”