I'm never really sorry for anything. It's a ruse. I intend everything.
I intend to go on forever and fuck everything up.
[And then I'll die, eventually, if things remain as they are]
[But I can make believe I'll never die]
But then I'll just be talking to myself…
So be it? Do I really have a choice?
BUT WHY YOU, we all may wonder.
There are reasons, and then there are reasons.
But it's all madness.
I chose to write to you, to think about getting coffee,
because I'm mad. But what is madness?
Why do I exist? Question might plague me, but might mean nothing at all to you.
And there it is, words you might never read.
Still don't feel like I'm wasting my time. Even if I'm insane. Even if you decide that this is ridiculous. Even if it kills me. [especially if it kills me]
No comments:
Post a Comment