there is going to be nothing but what.
fuck this is not my language, it’s really why i feel, i own it.
no religion, no word, no reality to define what i mean, what i want, what i’m looking for.
the unknown is my knowledge.
my mistakes are the final solution to -my- (but yours) creation.
The only ‘thing’ i know is that drug made me what i am, and i’m definitly writing this under no substance. I mean it.
My life is a sad beat made of the illusion of light.
i’m crasy happy to be sad, sad not to be in this reality.
sad to be out of my fantastic materialism.
ok, this are only words but what is the most important then that out of concrete reality.
REALITY, fuck U REALITY.
no mark, no angel, what is what, what is me.
Fuking human nature, thanks miles to keep me alive.
My final trip of fucking no sarkosy.
and thanks again tricky to have get away from this mess of parisian absurdity on a stupid january.