Why... If it's so wrong, why does it feel so right, how can I dodge all that sybaritic feelings, animal struggles, lusty convulsions when they are so so embraceable so hugable.
Still I have smashed this glass of poisonous honey...but soon after defeated by weakness, second thougts, panicated that withdrawal is kicking shit out of me, I have returned like the murder at the crime scene, without ringing/calling twice, but silent and eager to see the sweetness that I have shattered.
I was saying that I`m like a chubby in a carouselle, riding a unicorn or just a pony with a strap-on, whatever, I`m spinning around, high by the lights and smoke, the mirage, by the Morgan Anorganic Lady, very casual, careless regarding the entropy acceleration, discarding the fact I`m not fit there anylonger, like a spoiled child with sharp spurs blazing a ticklish path...
A inner Frank nags me that my wandering phase should stop, that I should do the right thing and not the things right.
A friendlier face tells me with a funny lisp: "Heey mistew be vewy vewy quiet and keep hunting that miscweant...wabbits'' . Don`t say he`s barely saw the tail, I will do better, besides the hunting is not about the catch it`s about the thrill of it.
You`ll say: tell me with whom you gather and I`ll tell you who you are ... well you do have a point but...as there ain't no such thing as bad publicity...there ain`t no such thing as bad friends, plus these imaginary ones are very touchy.