There’s no stress. I just keep running out of time. I often think about vomiting blood although I do not wait for such a day. My god has, once again, gone far away. Meeting him is a cumbersome process. Alcohol cannot help every time. I am just too tired to find another way. I wish I could be a stranger here once again. I wish that and a couple of other things and none of those things matter. I am not looking for fulfilment. I am pretending to be a fool and in the process, I have, to some extent, become a fool. It is hard to unbecome a fool but I keep trying. I am half down in the swamp and I wait it enters my mouth and jams my both lungs. There’s wind blowing where nobody is receiving it and where the man waits, there’s neither water nor wine nor a moment of rest.
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