I live a cliche. to be understood. I would say love, but it’s unconditional. at least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve crossed almost everyone. I’ve learned and perhaps they’ve learned sustenance. maybe. I want something more. not because I know more. Suicide isn’t even satisfying: sniffles, pictures, others’ self-inadequacies, corpse. My mind is full of fuck you and woe. I don’t aim to tell my story; I aim for gratification and why not? My only real choice, if I had one, is that this life of mine never occurred. Not a woe is me but a waste of everyone’s time. Fuck you. It’s my only expression in my current state that feels good once in a while.