i could have ended my life right now, right here. but i have a darling to look forward to. that is probably the only thing which is holding me back from it.

the feeling of detaching from your own physical body. it makes you forget the present and sulk in the imaginary. the third arm is ticking slowly, maybe not so slowly but regularly. a river flushes right in my face and i am not sure if i want to see that. twenty times twelve characters have passed and people still think i do not belong to the character i am supposed to belong to. maybe somebody picked me up and picked me up again by picking a birthday for me. artaud was a virgo too but apparently he was not that much of a virgo either.

talk about self-destruction. one destructs every day. destruction is construction essentially. tear down a building and a random yet interesting ruins of debris is constructed. destructionism and the theatre of nightmare. the theatre of destruction. no. müller has gone that direction. so did einstürzende neubauten. theatre of nightmare that is. self-destruction. everyone is destroying oneself everyday. just by living. one lives and what will the end be? death. certainly. i might know nothing but i know everyone has to die. some day. some sooner and some later, while some wish it could be later and some wish it could be sooner.

aber warum? warum bin ich nicht verrückt? och oder... oder warum bin dich nicht?
wer ist, und wer ist nicht. wo wisst? ich weiß nur dass ich dich lieben.

that is what keeps my box hopping. yes, everyone destroys oneself just by hanging on and staying alive and i am doing it too. but why, why do i have to be human and not just a cheetah or hyena? it must have been boring for a statue of helen standing up there all day and not able to seduce anyone really. poor helen. nobody cares about the classical beauty helen anymore and everyone wants to be as slim as a bamboo. bloody ridiculous and no desire to go further.

about time to put myself to sleep.