Monday, April 12, 2010
serial killers read me bedtime stories sitting at the edge of my princess bed
But despite the sunshine and the baby-blue Berlin sky. The extremely cheerful birds chirping from their nest outside my kitchen window. And the perfectly moist lemon poppy cake I over-indulged in.
It's like the curtain dropped. And I am choking on musty and dusty red velvet. The air feels sandpaper-y to breathe and I am just too tired to keep my eyelids hoisted. Instead I fall into a half-sleep state where serial killers read me bedtime stories sitting at the edge of my princess bed. And I masturbate myself raw with a spiked dildo. And tear the wings off dragon flies.
I still haven't been able to create sufficient meaning to sustain my pitiful existence in this cold galaxy.