Binge living

I just have the urge of yelling "I need help, get me out of here!"
And every memory punishes me for it.

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The echoes of seasons

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Gunoi

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Anything you make of it

This... mountain of solitude this... pile of interpretation. Don't we... at least I feel alone when I see you looking at the same picture as me and talking another language. Language... it's powerful indeed. For everything is subjective... Phylosophy is almost useless. You just won't make anything out of what I say, and I have a problem... I just phylosophate for your own goddamn sake. What I make of this world? It just is, along with us. As an insignifiant part of it, with an ego big enough to dream of changing it "for the better"... now I choose to respect. And love, and admire, and be astonished. Why? Because I have to choose a way to express myself, don't I? All this talking... text is irrelevant... meet me and I will show so much more. I'll end with this quirk of grammar we call rhymes... why? Just kill yourself And on the empty blackboard you will be reminded That you forgot twenty books a shelf Filled with your delighted. Just let yoursel...
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