So how does it work? In a place like this, where dragging your legs from one corner to other feels like clockwork that is exhausting, however small is the amount of oxygen you inhaled in order to displace yourselves. This post may turn out to be a big fat fucking rant. This is not my first warning.
You’ve decided to read it anyway. idc
Draw yourself a kitschy house — three pale blue coloured wall with an original Japanese print art which had flourished before WWII, your bed ever so comfy, your study and the wall to wall shelves of all your favourite books that you plan to read and re-read if you have enough time in your life, a huge table stacked with recycled paper, canvasses and indistinguishably parched you, pivoted on a long lost letter you found in your family archives while projecting someone else’s emotions on a screen you longingly stare at.
Now erase it, yes! scrap that shit. You don’t get any of that.
Mostly your days would be spent repenting the decisions you’ve have already made, because that’s the design. Days would burn and nights follow. Eyes are squinting and losing sight of what you want to actually see.
I have a point in here, somewhere. You might wanna re-read this shit.