According to my calculations all the time over 46 mn people are taking a dump.
There are so many things to do in the world. And I have to work... This can be seen as a terrible method of self-planned torture. Yesterday I actually refused to go to a pub. My morals are corrupted over a dangerous limit.
My fingers have already accustomed to pain and wounds do not hurt when they appear. Worse to heal are the wounds in my heart. My uncle showed me pictures of their visit to the school (damn I actually can look quite bearable even when I cry) and when I saw a pic of me crying on Lennie's lap during the graduation ceremony I redid the action. Dreams make me wonder whether I really am past the phases of my life that I want to forget. People appear behind my door to tell me they love me and I don't know whether it is a dream or for real. But I would guess from the can of beer size of a barrel that it actually was a dream. Still I love you too.
My goal for the summer was to climb to the roof of a shopping mall to observe people that are stupid and run like headless chickens (or cocks respectively), but the door to the roof is hidden behind many closed doors and the guards don't want to give their keys. Another goal that I don't seem to meet is to find a green elephant in this boring city. My friends only see pink ones and I see nothing. Goals are not to be planned but in a destructive state of mind in which self-confidence is an unknown term. Happily enough I have gained mine back. Or more like forgotten the competative environment in flekke in which I sank below the ocean level although I stood on a mountain acting like rewinded electric stairs that pulled me down faster than light. (speed of light for dummies: 299792,4562 km/s) I fell. However here I have an angel that made me mozzarella pizza after a hard day working. Nothing fixes like an angel with panda's eyes and hair so organic that if the lights are set up right it looks green.
I can't speak any longer. There are no words like amoral and beyond in Finnish language. My mind doesn't work. Work is very destructive. I am gonna go travelling if my father is not washing laundry when I try to meet him to give me money. He ows me so much that I can go through sweden to denmark and home and to estonia and still afford to go to bolivia. But he doesn't want to see his creation. How can he? I will never hate my poems.
My fingers have already accustomed to pain and wounds do not hurt when they appear. Worse to heal are the wounds in my heart. My uncle showed me pictures of their visit to the school (damn I actually can look quite bearable even when I cry) and when I saw a pic of me crying on Lennie's lap during the graduation ceremony I redid the action. Dreams make me wonder whether I really am past the phases of my life that I want to forget. People appear behind my door to tell me they love me and I don't know whether it is a dream or for real. But I would guess from the can of beer size of a barrel that it actually was a dream. Still I love you too.
My goal for the summer was to climb to the roof of a shopping mall to observe people that are stupid and run like headless chickens (or cocks respectively), but the door to the roof is hidden behind many closed doors and the guards don't want to give their keys. Another goal that I don't seem to meet is to find a green elephant in this boring city. My friends only see pink ones and I see nothing. Goals are not to be planned but in a destructive state of mind in which self-confidence is an unknown term. Happily enough I have gained mine back. Or more like forgotten the competative environment in flekke in which I sank below the ocean level although I stood on a mountain acting like rewinded electric stairs that pulled me down faster than light. (speed of light for dummies: 299792,4562 km/s) I fell. However here I have an angel that made me mozzarella pizza after a hard day working. Nothing fixes like an angel with panda's eyes and hair so organic that if the lights are set up right it looks green.
I can't speak any longer. There are no words like amoral and beyond in Finnish language. My mind doesn't work. Work is very destructive. I am gonna go travelling if my father is not washing laundry when I try to meet him to give me money. He ows me so much that I can go through sweden to denmark and home and to estonia and still afford to go to bolivia. But he doesn't want to see his creation. How can he? I will never hate my poems.