The clock is ticking, you can forgive me for leaving, but not for coming back, cos I'm coming... I'm running.
I burn too much cigarettes holes in your imagination.
I see everything, for once, better than it was and as good as it could be.
I drag myself through revolution, I run for freedom.
I sit on the side with a coffee and write in my daybook and observe...
I run again
I remember the life that I didn't want to lose but lost and have to remember.
I write my name in blue pen and green oil stick, in orange crayon and in charcoal, I feel like I'm signing the contract of my life. I can't believe the honesty as it travels down my arm and comes out my pen.
I run... and as I do I wipe out all romance of the streets and charm sinners while they cockfight using their knees to pray for each other's sufocation...
I don't stop, I put down what might be left to say. I run. I don't expect anything more (just freelove and colombian coffee with national tobacco)
I want to reincarnate the ghostly spirit of jazz
my blood is running like eternity outside of time as my words unsuccesfully head for the next decade.
I want to be philosophy rather than an artistic credo.
I keep running.
I want to take your clothes with the slowness of people who know how easy it is to be proven wrong.
but wait, are you willing to listen?
Stop. Es geht nicht.
Ich denke, das war also ein herrlicher Sonnesaufgang.
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