Hello. I hate you. I hate you more than I'd like to admit. I hate when people call you sweet. I hate that you can draw. I hate that you like the same books as me. How DARE you like what I like. And how DARE you like it incorrectly. I hate that you were one of the first to say hello to him. I hate that you have a special place in his heart because you were one of the first to be his friend. I hate that no matter how much I care. No matter how much of myself I dedicate just to make him happy: I will never be the person that said "hello" and brought him out of depression. I hate what makes you special to him. I hate how people think you're smart. I hate that you go about life lying: only smiling and getting good grades. I hate that you exist. I really do. But you know what... I love that I know pain and joy at levels your straight A brain cant fathom. That...is all that keeps me from wishing your poor naive soul dead.
Sunlight dances on her face and the shade fights for her attention, the concrete lifts into a smile when she delights it with every delicate step, she breaths out the sensation of eating ice-cream in the summer and she breaths in the wounds and the scars of everyone around her. Smile bright but her eyes are faded to grey, skin flawless but her cheeks have hollowed inwards, her footsteps grow heavy as the ground shakes beneath her, the shadows creep up her neck as the pavement drags her to the ground. Enduring the agony of breathing in took away the sunlights daughter to the shadows
No comprehension came from the white eyes before me. But it was not that hard to grasp. It was as simple as a green ghost floating out of the blades of grass as we inhale them, or as the subtle chimes one can listen to as butterflies rise and fall through porcelain pirouettes, and leave the air with the shape and color of a Han masterpiece. Nonetheless, the bears will not sleep until my umbrella can cover them all. But it is so small, the aluminum skeleton of a spider. Dead spider and crying flea, jumping through the cracks of my darkened wall, burnt by incense and cigarettes. Pale blue light remains through my fingers as I try to guess the screams of your figure under these cold, soft silk robes. it will fall and whistle towards the floor. But your body will always stay still, my young marble soul.
An intellectual party must never miss two things. First, communist propoaganda. Second, paintings. Violent paintings, traces that can be seen, like the marks a whale leaves over the water. Night will never fall if we can see the oil of the stars and feel the waves of the dying sea, the blood of the Saint Sebastian in pain, or the skin of the ronin who burns in his armor. The people will laugh for a while, talk about how art is bourgeois an discuss Breton's radical absurdism. They will always miss a few points about color in the middle of their exquisite corpses, and will struggle not to notice how they all have the same baroque and needlessly showy style. That is no style. It is as stylish as the complex tunnels ants build, when they have enough space to live and simply want to keep invaders thinking. The smart ones should fill the holes with silver and copper. Then they would unearth the blazing bush Moses saw when he fled the void within.
No one ever thinks that the guy next to you at work is the monster. Instead, we search under our beds and down dark alleyways, looking over our shoulders at every glance in fear of a monster lurking in the shadows. But who's to say that we are really safe anywhere? I thought I was safe at work. And I was. But poor young girl, she wasn't. She worked in the same building, with the same people, but her safety was stolen away when he thought he could get away with something. He took every bit of her and broke her down. He belittled her and embarrassed her name, all to get what he wanted. A small office, a young helpless girl, and his restless hands. Where does it stop?