My morbid air condemns me. It makes me see everything in black and white, accompanied by my obsolete lips, which stubbornly insist on telling the truth, my truth. Rarely do those who steal my pleasure, my affection, my imperfection survive. Clad in iron rings, a fine, archaic armor that protects me, or rather, distances me from reality, leaving something distorted, merely invented.
My dreams have fallen into disuse and the common has become negligent, inhuman, immoral. I am incapable of easily accepting, rather I make myself a thinking, stubborn, adjective-laden being, without a final period, many beg for ellipses, etceteras, but my thoughts, my opinions cannot be thrown away, not out in the open, in the harsh pain and luck of the wind, they must first pass through the ears of you who pretend to hear me, because if you truly heard me, you wouldn't continue chewing your generation.
Where are the values I demanded of you? You think highly, "who are you to impose something on me?"
I am what I always wanted to be, and what your perverse society, accustomed to the miserable routine of ellipses, of null thoughts, of half-cut ideas, prevented me from being, from showing. My bitterness does me so much good.
Therefore, with almost complete certainty, you will not know me well, be content with my falsity.
