fever takes me

racing on the swing... ups and downs... down and up harder than you... farther than you... a pathetic Louis-Ferdinand Celine imitator... and you love it... love to hate it... he doesn't have a degree like you... certified... diploma-weilding... paid off your mortgage... beautiful children without disabilities... mental or physical... and you push them... to be impressive... so you can brag about them... inculcate them... prepare them better than you were... and you admire your selfless sacrifice... and how... it... makes... you... love... yourself.

 

give me drink... more and more and more... i drink deeper than Falstaff... deeper than a young Nietzsche... before his obessive-compulsive readingreadingreading accelerated the deterioration of his eyesight... and the manic-depression... deeper than you... with the semi-automatic pistol between the smooth full cocksucking lips...


are you noble?... are you fair?... do you weep from the unexpected touch?... the catharsis?... are you open-minded enough to explore... to experiment... to dare to venture outside of your comfort zone?... the familiar?... out, out farther into the unknown region?... O, Whitman... speakest thou through me now...

 

i live... but why?... because i don't know how to die well.

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