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Lets say its only but a pit stop. Sitting in the hollow really makes you tearful and happy. By the way, the two polocoustic words are not interwoven. Believe me, if you’d try my tears, you’d be lesser. Let’s rephrase. I did love him, then I suddenly didn’t. I fell for lust. I did not fell for lust. I wanted to flee. I did not flee. I did everything I did not want to do.

It’s like being the nonwoven point between two hyperbola. The relief of letting go and the regret of the same. No tears can exit these canals. Even if they are forced, they will remain static, failed. I miss the value of him. Anything else? Holy shit I fucking was infatuated with that guy. Loving. Caring. Sharing every moment.

Jeg hater Pink Floyd. Doffe. Hva faen Doffe.

I am shaping.
Hvad skal du med bil og villa, når allt går så jävla illa? ASDGHJKJHFDS

You can’t put up with anything less than lovely. You spend your life running, avoiding, escaping. That quest for something pretty. A cheat. A cliché. Diary (2003) by Chuck Palahniuk. (It proves that, in the counting months, you could say years; I’ve never seen myself in quest for something else. The worse part accends when that also accounts people around. Sorry?

Not going home.
Swinton was good though. Bored me the cunt out. 
A couple of kilometers from our island, floating downstream in June.
Two places in a stroll. I love beauty in mechanical memorabilia. Now I’m of to something graver.
Chaz.
Skal jeg stupe i det? Ned der,           hvor utsikt knapt           speiles og synet ikke           er.Hvor vidt,           Jeg vil innfinnes og           varmen er fabrikert.Nektelsen,           Vil gi meg intet,           Skyene er omgjort,           Tapet er forseglet.Hvi så,           Spør en hånd,           ”er sjelen til å spise?”           Jeg skuer opp.En bris tasler,           og jeg treffes. Med.           Et innpust gjøres.Sjokk -           Hvor er du?           ”Jeg har vært her.”           ”Hele tiden.”