Falsehood is what saves me. The only thing. Turning into someone else. Into Annie Hall. Or into myself - but weaker self or stronger self. Into a film. Into a book. I have to ring like bracelets, looking for a support in imagined (redrawn?) hand. I clench fists. I clench myself not to fly off. Not to scatter my own ugliness, fear, my own weakness and agression. I'm scratchning on my features to change. And then I pray for it to fade away. Only God could have... Last thread, last breath, bounce and...slowly going up...
red disorder - you fucking bastard- you did it again
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