the abused, of course, are always the most precious, while the self abusing, always shunned. not worth my time, in her opinion. he says otherwise, but what does that matter? the continuous drill of hammered keys is comforting for me. you don’t care. and you don’t care for those brief pauses, the silences for the moments of thought and reflection; those are the worst, the most antagonising. each little slice of quiet feels like just the opposite to that: screams, beaten into the skull like some medieval cure for your own holy disease. and still they continue. but, only because i let them so. “keep yourself above”, he says. “above what”, you ask. they can only reply with “yourself, my friend”. should you not be confused, boy? so my head rings still, from this television hangover. i know it would only stop, should i speak; yet, i detest speaking. when your mouth’s open, the flies can get in. the time is, 3:36AM. thank you for your money, stupid. the time is, 3:37AM. thank you for… but talking clock is just another voice, and not real. hush now, Celladoir, baby. it’s not your place to speak now, considering all you are, and have become. it’s my turn now, and if you try to take that away from me, i shall crush you like a fucking insect. it’s ok: i’m comforted by a faint tune from an ancient music box, running through my head. when, or if, i stop, there will be nothing more than the methodical groans of the pianoguitar, delicately plucking away at it’s own strings, like the suicidal puppy you know you really are. mechanical growling from beyond my bedroom suddenly spoils my blonde view of perfect silence. i try to sleep. let those damn strings hang themselves for tonight. close my eyes & drift away, to music that puts holes in your head. ah, sweet tranquillity: how you cut me so delicately.
