March telling myself that I spent all I had to write. I had to stop fucking. To define, to line up a thought that makes sense. A conclusion. A response. A wonderful gift!
Nothing to tell. No desire to tell.
March strange. Gray. I really think that the throw away. Pretend that there ever was. March Fulvia trying to reassemble. He saved my teeth and try to save everything else. What in me is wrong. Tomorrow I should go to her friend luminary homeopath. When Fulvia insisted that I go there I let myself be convinced by that fucking good little voice telling me to do something you do something for you. But I will not go anymore. What should I tell her? I prefer to pull me all his teeth listening to Immigrant Song by the legendary dentist. The homeopath requires a much larger effort. In addition to hold it wide open that mouth, I (e) to make word after word in a row thoughts in my head in a row are not at all. I will not go.
not going to work has become a weekly ritual. We accept excuses plausible and implausible, it is the same, because I used them all. Even my mother felt. "I I'm calling the office. Why do not you answer? ". Problems. Heavy phone calls, money, various cocks, aunts. March which makes me feel like a spring stretched. In my cock. When I can be a blow on the balls. Not good for others, of course. It's not good for me, because living with claustrophobic feelings. Rutto anger and desire to tear apart the sky, tearing lampposts as if they were daisies, scrape the roads ... when you think the world is making fun of you. And I want to silence him with all my strength ...
And then came spring is cursed. What's the rush was?
my memory lapses are rosicare Total as are profound. Scenes that dissolve completely. That squinting in the dark trying to fish out ... but I
strange dreams. Clusters of known faces and sad thoughts that I carry inside. People to whom I should speak. People to whom I speak. Old images, movies of real science fiction. Maybe because I removed the duvet. Or will I have to vomit. In any case I do not really want to answer questions. It is always the shit. Even the most conscientious patience ... my conscience say that I do not belong.
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