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No More Games

There is a consistent pattern among men and women:

Go to a bar, then flirt and dance, and then find a suitable partner –

Maybe go to dinner, or maybe go out to coffee, but there is no chance.

It is a interview of who can hang the longest. Who can last the longest through pain and suffering. Who can deal with the the history of the family, both past and present, who can deal with the rest?

That is the question.

People aren’t looking for a soul mate their looking for a fuck mate, one to satisfy the quick and easy hedonistic impulses.

That’s what they are looking for.

I do not for the same, except for the intermediary the quick high, the quick drunk, that is what I look for.

An escape, that is what the artist looks for. An exit, what is the way of escaping the long and enduring suffering?

What is it?

What is it that keeps me up at night? Is it the crows croaking during the daylight? Is it the thought of swimming in the abyss? What is that keeps the writer at his writing desk? What is it that keeps him alive? Is it love? Is it madness?

What is it that keeps  him alive?

That is the question that lurks within the subconscious and brings life into the conscious. Drugs, alcohol, and remedies, these are the things that keep the writer alive in the midst of suffering? However, the rest of the populace must not know what is underneath. They must not know what is that keeps its hunger lasting, and its suffering lasting.

What is it?

Is it love?

Is it madness?

Is it addiction?

What is it that keeps the writer writing?

What is it?

What is it?

What is it?

Death awaits…

Death waits…

Death waits…

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