Letters from a past self

“Inside me it’s like Chernobyl
I have a mission like Kill Bill
my mind is sharp like a katana.
Princess Nokia sings Kitana
Between the two of us, I am the mess
I turned my life into a disruption of broken minutes
I feel injured, legs and eyelids burned.

I don’t want to smile now
I don’t owe you anything: yes, I said it. I though I was in debt,
like I had to breath until I evaporate into nothing.
I do whatever it takes to be miserable
and at night I get lost on the walls:
shadows travel on fast cars
bodies and hands meet at intersections
crossing bodies and hands into a pink shameful rave
we’re melting into a new form,
a cherry blossom, maybe, delicate like the ones described in Murakami’s books.
I run trough Shibuya on my motorbike
I feel fierce and wasted
but you shouldn’t be like that.
No one should do what I do, because it’s never for myself.
History repeats itself only in moments of bad luck
and when the street lights go out finally we see the moon, a black circle in a dark sky.
Inside me it’s like Chernobyl
I have a yellow suit like Kill Bill
No adjectives can describe the mask I’m wearing,
you’re trying to scratch an already torn canvas:
but I’m not like a Fontana painting.
I’m not worth a million: modern art reveals the plot
the truth is
understanding really only creates drama
Providence is also called karma
I like to hide under the neon lights in suburbs parking lots.”


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