Baby forgot to take her meds...ji

I feel like flying. I feel like rambling, like taking off. That’s what I love about my car, I can speak out loud and no one can say much about it, maybe the driver next to me, but then again he/she doesn’t have to listen to me.
I feel like falling, like taking a leap. It was brilliant I swear. It was great. I love writing, I love singing. I love being able to create worlds around me. I’m complete. For a fraction of second I can be eternal.
And I call the others selfish… I’m as ego- centred as one can be… I love talking about me, about the things I am.
I’m fire. I’m burnt. I’ve been since I can remember, I love being hated. And listening to music in languages I can’t understand. Sometimes.
Its now, or a while ago as I drove, that I realized the power that writing gives you. Taking words and putting them together making them have some sense at all. You own them, you make them live as they slip off your mouth or your hands. The traces of ink left on the paper are the one memory of you, the one sign that you existed.
It’s like giving and taking life. I feel like taking life. I’m a vampire. Words are like drops of blood falling from an open mouth, dripping, slipping, being wasted. Blood is life, life escapes from my mouth. And I’m babbling.
Like a razor on the skin. I hate bore. Razors like bore, they do because they can kill it. They like feeling strangers, outsiders to a cold skin. They are intruders to warm muscles, to liquids and fibbers. Its inside out, open and close, clean and messy and all the other contradictions you can find.
I’m blind, she’s too. But she sees him everywhere, she is craving for him, she longs for him. She lives inside me. I hate her. Lately she’s around way too much; she takes my head and my mind. She’s weird.
I’m giggling, not now but before. Why can’t I have some kind of tape recorder to just start babbling and have it all to type later? I couldn’t stop smiling. The sky was blue now its black. There are no stars, where are they now? Falling somewhere?
One day I’ll live in Italy, near a lonely beach in a one bedroom place, I don’t care, maybe just for a week. I’ll live on water melons and rice water. I’ll type a page per day, a poem a week will be allow.
Maybe I should stop now. I can’t remember anything more, only that I love the Placebo cd, and I could hear Pierrot the clown ten times in a row… J’adore.

- If your ever around, in the city or the suburs of this town, be sure to come around- Pierrot the clow, Placebo... been listening too much lately.. I love it¡¡¡¡