I know a man who everytime he writes he thinks he is doing something that hasn’t been done before.
Well he must be fucking some serious stuff.
Even words have their stinks…
every now and then they also shit the place up,
and they are absolutely in no hurry to die like an abundant legend.
Leave those people who makes a mockery out of writing, leave those bastards who think of it as an idea, a better way to sell liberation.
At most it’s an escape…it’s a winner among dying soldiers…
Leave poetry… leave art… leave dictations, leave all pleasures of controlled dystopia.
Find days in knowing a person, find days in playing with beautiful tits…
Start noticing towards the dustbins of every corner…
Disappear inside the music that blossoms blood,
and write only if you can find silence in continuation…
put some words only if you can keep evolution out of imagination.

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Photograph: Google.