When some sort of idiotic emotion gobbles you up and struggles to maintain control of your entire self then you know there is something wrong with your way of living as I found out firsthand. Now in order to counter this self-detonating idiocy I must control the controller itself. And I speak of love as if I am the first person to ever experience such godawful fallacy, which by the way is completely rational in my part but totally and completely brash and hasty amongst normal denizens of this forsaken planet. I've met lots of people in my stay here in London and each person signifies a different star, of which despite its brightness and ardour remains distant and farfetched for my own desires. For the most part I try so very hard to ignore this foolishness, problems which I created with my own paranoia, but the longer it takes the more it sets in and then blowjobs me down to my unconscious. I'd have none of this if given the chance. I'd have none of all either. Now that I have these, these petty euphoric idiocy, 'tis hard to ever go back. If I survive it is not because I learned to love, but because I learned that sex, play and fist are siblings in spirit.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.