The dead man and his whore

 

Fooled myself again did I? This is me filling out a post dinner feedback form.I do not like the shaping up of things at times. Two years ago, even though I was sentimentally whacked up at least I knew who I was. Here adding to the identity crisis is my existential crisis.
But I have been writing really. Writing out fliers and write ups for a club that has pretty much over sensationalized every grain of belief that i had once looked forward to as inspiration.
I mutter words like passion, creativity and out of the box thinking like they were mechanically drilled into some forlorn human heart. The misery, however, is due to the fact that the more I write it and the more I say it, the less I seem to believe in it. 
But these such absolute misery would entitle me to say..Fuck mechanics..and Fuck the fliers..I will write and eat and drink and love. 
I would have my say, though seemingly unheard..just like the dead man would have his whore.


xoxoxoxo