i want a real, breathing person, not a shadow.

the echoes are everywhere: metamorphosis can rend all memory asunder.

the moment is me: i've stopped looking into the future.
the portrait of all that blinds, that stabs me through?

the ignominous ineptitiude of mankind glowers in my face,
and i know now that i have nowhere else to turn, only
that i may pummel my soul towards some kind of Cross or Submission.

i do know of such bonds you have.
and that's why i severed them.
i have other bonds that i carry...

fraternal bonds, forged through hate.

it's okay to make a mess of things.

It has been said that while most music exists to heal wounds, the tango is sung and played for the purpose of opening them and fingering them until they bleed.

pain is a testament to the convictions we must hold to our hearts. i think of the blood that has been shed or could have been shed, and my own grows colder.

the nature of the devil is to wander, into a foreign land, into your heart, into chaos. wherever he goes, he goes heartless. and in time, i will, too.

thus spoke zarathustra:
so we lie in the eternal circle.

everything comes full circle.
everything must be reset and replayed.
that is the way you filthy humans work."What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once ( Read more... )

"to people like us, our fathers are as gods."

under this shadow i know better - godliness is the ultimate loneliness.

a heart-stopping death note, this is not, but without any conscious effort whatsoever, the ones who stay closest to me begin to dream that suicide is the answer ( Read more... )

one foot dangling precariously over the yawning death of the deep sea,
i think it funny that my hurt is diminishing at this stage.

the portrait of the olde family smoulders in the fire, and i wonder -
are we your curiosity, your twister, your enigma?

but no, we're your playthings at teatime and nights at the winery.
the permeating stench of the vine reeks of sour grapes on bitter tongues.