Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day; or the agonies which are have their origins in ecstasies which might have been.

The Rejected

📷 Silent Hill f

𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐈 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐄 📸

Death left its old tragic heaven and became the lyrical core of man: his invisible truth, his visible secret.

October 1st… what difference does it make? This dampness, this cold, it’s no longer an annoyance; it’s become my second skin. Every step I take toward that filthy office is a small bow to the truth that I’m already dead, just playing the part of a walking corpse that still collects a paycheck. Even the longing for sin is no longer pleasurable; it’s just an endless fatigue that I understand has no end. The only thing that’s truly fresh here is the absolute cold of this morning, freezing every lie in my throat.