There’s this cockpit and a never-ending silence of the sky…
I am in there holding my head between my knees.
I don’t know the science of aviation…I just pushed a button and here I am thousands feet above and hopelessly suicidal.
I have seen; most often music comes from the souls which don’t know how to cry…
I am not like the souls…I am like the music.
No shape, no existentialism,
always thinking about death even in times of possibilities of death.
A black cloud grueling in front of the window pane,
i can feel the wind…I can feel the accelerations and frictions…
Holding on to people is like holding a speeding jet plane, you don’t know when to let them go…
There’s this cockpit and there are people beneath.
I know loosing both of these will take me to a esoteric disappearance.
But it’s always better to loose and die than to be stranded and broken.
Escapism comes with great deal of addictions of massacre.

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Photograph: Arlene Fleming.