Tonight I’m very exited. My hair is greasy and my feet are cold. I even pretend that there’s a star looking down on me. The sky is reversed, yes, the colours are right. My clothes are tight. Tonight I’m also amused. The music’s piercing through my head, too long, too loud, too fast. Too familiar. I'm in the middle of a battle and I keep avoiding to fight.
I’m just plain old fucking tired. Poetry makes facts sound more interesting than they really are. Let’s just throw it into the trash. That’s where it all belongs. It is pretentious, just like the rest.
It is preposterous. All hope is preposterous. Today, I am as fake as I can be.
At least nothing can stop me from roaming in the cyberspace. See, I’ve become part of it. I’m a dot. My real name is written in 0s and 1s. And do not bitch about the past my friend. You weren’t even born then. On the contrary I live then. There is no way of finishing this. Don’t dare try. I was made an invisible presence, a ghost.. I am always irrelevant. You will be disappointed.
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