(but in the end, they are both ugly)
This is what I'm trying to believe.
This is what I've already failed to see.


Phantasmagoriai.Phantasmagoria
Last night, I dreamt of flying over ashen skies and metallic telephone wires and hundreds of thousands of chalk-feathered birds. Ive analyzed it to death, so much that my memory of it cannot be resurrected.
ii.
Every so often, in the early hours of the morning, I send prayers to the God I dont believe in, pleas for ecclesiastical forgiveness to the Church Ive long since outgrown.
I dont believe in eternal Paradise, but my faith in oblivion is absolute.
iii.
Ive never loved another human being as much as I love my sorrow.


My CatharsisI am the scent of falling rain, fragmented virgin mary statues with cracked lips parted in mute sacrilege. I am stained glass windows in an abandoned church, every color in an imaginary prism.My Catharsis
I am a hunger seeking to be sated by starvation, stygian shadows dancing on the wall. I am melancholia and sterilized metal, the cloying taste of Tylenol on my tongue.
I am words voiced by a pathological liar, nostalgia felt on summer nights. I am sunlight tracing the edge of a little girl's smile, the dull, aged flicker of a silver screen.
I am the butterfly we


Of1. Everything is dark again. (when I turned on the bedroom lights, one flickered out and died) Maybe this is a sign from the God I don't believe in.Of
2. The lacerations widen like little tears in the ozone layer, opening up to space and infecting me with the nothingness between solar systems
3. I can function, almost, but not quite, when starving myself. When spots appear bright and perpetually twinkling in my field of vision, tracing zigzag arcs against a color-stained canvas, connect-a-dot labyrinths in the quietude of a famished mind
4. Fat in


napoleon at sevenan old guitarist sitting on a watercolor hill,napoleon at seven
plucking on six strings absent. two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night, under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws, everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock, minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained— portraits wilt
by `shyble
--
Dans la vie il y a ceux qui se penchent pour faire leurs lacets et ceux qui en profitent
my gallery [link]
--
Sesquipedalian and proud of it!!
"Mendacem memorem esse oportet"- A liar needs a good memory
"Nooo; not the coffee! I need that to live DAMMIT!!" -Me
I am a member of the ~Self-Injury-Club
--
Sesquipedalian and proud of it!!
"Mendacem memorem esse oportet"- A liar needs a good memory
"Nooo; not the coffee! I need that to live DAMMIT!!" -Me
I am a member of the ~Self-Injury-Club
--
--
☃
btw, awesome emoticon
--
Sesquipedalian and proud of it!!
"Mendacem memorem esse oportet"- A liar needs a good memory
"Nooo; not the coffee! I need that to live DAMMIT!!" -Me
I am a member of the ~Self-Injury-Club
--
...
--
Sesquipedalian and proud of it!!
"Mendacem memorem esse oportet"- A liar needs a good memory
"Nooo; not the coffee! I need that to live DAMMIT!!" -Me
I am a member of the ~Self-Injury-Club
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