9

The shattered heart. Nope! Not only the heart, the whole body, the mind, life, spirit. Nothing more pleases me. Nothing more can my weak will force me to taste. Nothing. Nothing! Nothing!

Nullity. Nullity enters, invades, conquers all. Nullity dominates me. Nullity that, still, can be divided.

I read tasteless books. I read famous and assholes writers, and they tell me nothing, they do nothing, they want nothing.

Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! The nothing dominates and invades all. All I do, all I feel, all I think. The nothing is your emptiness whipping me. It is my absence of your being. The nothing is the omnipresence in my stories, marking them, staining them, exposing my feel pain to the world, my feel suffering, my incapacity, my inability, my imperfection, my incomprehensibility, my impossibility to love and loved to be, my impossibility of happiness, my ability, my lone and complete ability of being unhappy, ruin my life, scare who I love, burn me in vain, but, worse, still worse, worse than anything, my ability in not be loved by you and write the nothing.

Empty words. Yes. Empty words, without Russian Vodka, neither your hair, neither your lips, neither your skin, neither yours breasts, neither your fur, neither your smell, neither your love they have.

Empty words. Empty words, although empty they hurt me painfully like knifes. A knife that you bring, leaving to me the sad job of sticking it into my throat.

Nightmares. I dream of thee. I miss it.

A single Anacreon, nothing more, nothing less. A rotten and young Anacreon Fonjic, here, thrown away, twenty years old. Sad. Sad, sorrowful. Sad, sorrowful and with the certainty that I will never more, never more, become cheerful.