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.
Forwarded from 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐈 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐄 📸 (SAMURAI)
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.
آخر هفته رسید. دو روز هرز شدن. در خانه بمان. در تاریکی بمان. بیرون فقط دروغ است. اینجا جایی است که تو واقعاً هستی. تنبلی کن. هر غلطی میخواهی بکن. فردا بلند میشوی، اما بدنت سنگین است، انگار از گل ساخته شده. این استراحت نیست، این فقط توقف موقت زجر است. تمامش همین است. برو بخواب.