2 P.M. (Post on oneword.com for the day, Suicide.)
What a romantic, poetic end to whatever it is I live today. Even though it’s all I shouldn’t and never shall do, for I am a coward to it’s grasp. Poor and homeless, what else is there left? I’ve been rich, intellectual, at Fancier studies and even battled the best. Worked for my money. I even spent the biggest gaps of my time in the synagogue of many religions… I’m like Siddhartha starring in the river… what next? Om, perhaps…
5 P.M.
It's been exhausted, the last nerve, scraping the bottom barrel. Depressed, lost and hope given. What's left evaporated in wholes. Common these days. Expressions left, interpretation sucks, spirit fails, body unwilling, mind in shambles... shambles, shambles, shambles... sweet bumblebee didn't help me. Dormant time and time again. Rodent under floorboards, rodents gnawing away night and day, rodents common to the commoners. Typing rhythmic doom, beats in tune, notes in truth, revelations of conscious, negative hindsight. What's next is to drown in it's sounds; where inferno awaits.
2 A.M.
epitaph unnatural to the limp ED plan unholy red-line distinctly altering subconscious, dragging battling through war and gutter. spreading gospels of dysfunction, with well placed functional numerical layouts of communistic salvation. Chaplin-esque tramps ongoing solutions, nothing but cannon fodder... cannon fodder, cannon fodder, cannon fodder.
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