rabbit notes

[billysexcrime]

You're dead. We walk, we breathe, we laugh but we're dead. You're dead. You're dead. You're dead. A splendid, lovely day, the finest of fine days and the park bursts with campers. You're proud of that, it brings you joy.I love us. I love us like no one else portrays me. Because the faint love the resurrected, they've emptied the resurrected. But we love it. I love you, yes, you, even if you don't return it: So write to me. Well, lend me a choral word. I accept it. What’s least, I wrote it. I wait. Sit, gaze at the sun, the filter’s remnants, smearing, fading? Well then. Still dead, even deader now. And the departed sometimes sing, they sing.Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry. Oh, something straight, straight from the closet. Until it makes me wonder: But you, right? Cockroach. You know you’re laughing. Want to taste the scents the scent of the resurrected, the scent of the dying, as I once said. And you realize, more like a radio. Almost maybe. But it laughs. It laughs with love. It feels the scent the scent of dead love, the scent of love that’s died. Merry Christmas! The lonely have their people, we’re with the forests. Measuring love, as if to love, as much as love allows. Not pretending? That’s just how we do it. We walk, we die, we laugh, we speak, a strange day, we laugh at the weather, but in our gentle world. Flowers, sticky, a frail laugh.I want you to know: cockroach, I get your weight. Imagine me. Imagine me as I am. New, if you can spice it up, betrayals, forgotten about me, fallen. Death hides me whole. The departed have their birds, only hollow, only tick-tock, tick-tock. I fear the empty days haven’t yet been finished. Tongues clash with the cry of two choirs of people. But my yesterday stands as a true corpse. Not like now. And people full. In the whole, down to the last nail. I haven’t died yet, but my body dulls me. Writing laughs. Writing boldly. Sometimes it laughs. Writing boldly. Writing boldly. Writing boldly. We’re both dead. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA COCKROACH!