Memory is a problem, so is imagination. I would prefer imagining nothing, remembering nothing. Dreaming drains me. My nightmares continue even after they have ended. For a change, I am listening to something else, something that is not jazz or blues or classic. The smell of a burning incense stick has made this place more livable. I can breathe without feeling, even for a little while, disgusted. A beer can emptied last night sits on my table. I pick it up and inhale. Pathetic. How could anybody drink such shit? And with this realization, how could anybody drink the same shit again the very next day without feeling anything. How could anybody do that unless it’s me doing that. Bagetelle No. 25. Ludwig van Beethoven. Tin tin tin tin tin tin tin the piano keys are struck down, emitting all the haunt at once and in daylight. I would empty my body of blood, if I could, as I listen to this. I need sadness. A tragedy would be better. Something that can bring me to tears for at least a whole night.
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