Last night my trupi began to rest at four without a quarter. I was awakened three hours later from which I began halting as if lobotomized. Standing up was mandatory. I was able to find my clothing, which I had dressed myself with still blind from the demands if my own body. On foot, I routed a kilometer on the arid concrete plains I was in the middle of and embarked into a bus a size too small like a good European. It was leaking of rottenness. My poor nose which had given up on me and my lungs having been filled with the vile matter, the marrow found at the tips of my hands' fingers dispirited. Once arrived, I had spent hours in an eternal pale meditation. I left and partook in the same route as before, the bus now much more great. In the face of the stalinist block in which I live, I twisted my key in the frog so that I could be met by my spiteful drunken mother, who was at that moment spitting vape fumes in the fashion of a prepubescent fag, on a phone call with one of her friends, outraged by my return home, ready to stick me to the kitchen walls and put me on trial, the punishment awaiting me being the capital one, but there was no time for that. She had to refill her glass with Aperol.
I cannot feel anything.
I lied at the end of my bed to rest, later composing this for you people to find yourself reading about me.
I cannot feel anything.
I lied at the end of my bed to rest, later composing this for you people to find yourself reading about me.
