Fyrir þá sem skilja mig ekki...
Words seem to fall out of place. Like little stones prepared to roll out they drift around my subconsious. I've had meaningful relationship with those who never wanted to understand but I try. They seem to find only words meant for those who forget, words that have no meaning outside of their own little hide. In the memories of those who fall back I've seen only gargantuan illusions of the words meant for me. I don't understand why they must go away but I respect their whishes like I repsect the rest of the world, no matter how wrong they are.

I've been drinking. Remember poems about drinking by the old Chinoise in French. I realize they don't remember anymore, just their words and translations. Remembering is only meant for one mind and I've realized it's not many who understand that memory is frail.

Remembering those who have gone before. I've longed for their presence, those who can and cannot appear like apparations before the eye. Only those who i cherrish the most do I hope to see again and again, just before my time ends in spirals only reserved to me. I spiral down...

Before my eyes I hope to see the coming of a new age, but new age always happens before my eyes and the dilemma seems to be stuck. Stuck in the words and interpitation of those who have gone before me. I don't realize why but my senses have gone and my understanding seems to fade like the memory of the things you read.

I've said that only people believe. But they seem to forget what to believe in, forget that they are intelligent enough to suffer short passages of time of disbelief to understand the true meaning hidden behind the alpha-consurfus. Father of fuck-ups, you did it on purpose.

I remember things that no-one else likes to remember. They are just hidden under your own morally distinct reality, hidden behind the screens of unconsious sensationalism. Kitch of the future, breakfast of the world tomorrow. I've realized before that no-one understands the human mind, unless they see it from the outside. But the feel never gets to you, understanding perhaps but never the feel and the feelings. And that is what matters the most.

Before I go insane I would like to point out that I don't know myself. I've only known myself for such a short time and I'm always changing. It's like starting in the middle of a series and supposing that by reading what has already been written is also understanding what might be written in the near future. Understanding myself is understanding with a capital U.

I've never learned how to love. It's just a matter for those who whish to impose their minds on me. I've seen other people act upon their love and I've only seen lust. Beauty is so much more...

And so I leave my beauty imposed on the world, hoping to be dignified with an answer, although I don't suspect anyone will finish this.