What’s in a life? Just a collection of memories, never-ending pain, a hope so high it floats away into the void. Nothing to win, everything to lose.
Eating, drinking, it’s this demonic repetition I cannot stand, always the same, days blending into each other. Lovers’ touches become just annoying attempts to reconnect. I push people away, my sadness makes them flee. I tell them they are wasting their time. My love is short-lived, brief but intense, a flame that goes out and lets the darkness take over. Feeling numb but never comfortable.
All I do is write and draw. But why, I do not know
All art is quite useless
Oscar Wilde