If Reality Had A Stage Door I'd

The Things That Matter Don't Necessarily Make Sense.

Words Have A Life; Without Response They Die.

What A Weird Thing Smoking Is And I Can't Stop It. I Feel Cosy, Have A Sense Of Well-being When I'm Smoking, Poisoning Myself, Killing Myself Slowly. Not So Slowly Maybe. I Have All Kinds Of Pains I Don't Want To Know About And I Know That's What They're From. But When I Don't Smoke I Scarcely Feel As If I'm Living. I Don't Feel As If I'm Living Unless I'm Killing Myself.

Me, What's That After All? An Arbitrary Limitation Of Being Bounded By The People Before And After And On Either Side. Where They Leave Off I Begin, And Vice Versa.

Life Is A Process Of One Goneness After Another.