One has to collapse. That is it. One has to run away from one self and then one has to fuck oneself and the world to know what one is. Drink will not do and friends will not do: with glazy eyes and in an obedient tongue, one has to speak the language of sex and death. Somebody turns out to be a gift: gift of death. A poem is a gift of death: and DEATH is a gift of a poem by somebody who doesn’t know what a poem is and what death is: in the meantime somebody talks with the lisping language:
Even moon needs a language:
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