Loneliness is colorless. But it can swallow even the
brightest light. That's how I feel it. The world of colors.
Feelings have colors. My pen is blue. Doesn't feel a thing.
People under me play cards and talk in Rumanian and Russian.
I fart above them, enjoying that strange smell which is
pleasant only to its originator, and I think of you, my
beloved.
You are in a big city and I hope you're happy, my love. I
pray to Lord, I don't have much time, I'm dying, you know?
It's a strange, yellow feeling. I am dying alone and I have
no time, so I write about it, and about Demons, which always
chased me. Do you know what Demons is?
Demons have a liking to hurt the one you love. Ability to
hurt. To sheath a sword in scabbard. To sheath a sword in
your vagina. To kill the guard. To buy a whore. To take her
to a lonely place in forest, Mr. Clamp, and to torture her
there for many days, to buy a computer and surf for child
porn. To cum in your mouth and make you swallow it...
Demons, that's my other me. One me, here and now, writes.
One of the precious moments. When something I call ''my me''
has a chance to control, at least a little, the other me,
''Demons''.
I have two my selves and both of them are alone. The
loneliness is their biggest curse. And on top of all, they
hate each other. Now, do you understand why I'm dying?
A guy beneath me has golden teeth and hates Jews. I am a
Jew and I hate golden teeth. The Demons is getting out of
control, wait, damn you!
We'll take it slowly, blue pen!
So, I'm up here and I'm farting. My love is one hundred
fifty kilometers far, but it doesn't matter. Even if she was
here, I couldn't reach her. Demons would touch her, not me.
I'm dying of strange form of cancer, everyone's laughing
about it and nobody knows it, I like extreme declarations
and endings of books. There are situations in which I'd
wish... There are moments which...
The other way...
In certain moments I feel like living through an end of
book. I described it to you once, remember? It was also in a
big city, also on a seashore, but to the north of the place
you are now. I mean, you're to the south now. It's warmer
there, fuck, I hope it's raining and your cunt is soaking
wet, bitch!
Stop it, Demons!
I'm sorry, love, it is close, real close, Demons is
stronger and stronger... I want to die, but I'm afraid that
before I can, Demons will get out... It affects ''my me''
already and my me starts to wish Demons would get out.
The ends of books. You know what I mean? A hero holds his
dying love in his arms. A hero leaves for sunset. A hero
utters something like: I'll always remember you, baby. Shit
like that. The ends of books. I love to live through them.
I'm leaving for sunset... I hold your hand... I kiss you
goodbye. Proudly and with my head erect I leave.
But to the contrast with ends of books, in life comes
awakening. Another page. And I was born ONLY for the ends of
books, not for everlasting turning of pages.
And so one day I tell you: ''No matter with whom you'll be,
where you'll be, my only wish is you'll be happy, for I love
you. Farewell, my love'', and it is beautiful and proud and
romantic and blah blah blah... but the next day in the
morning I wake up and find out that the end was not the end
at all and I'll have to be with my feelings whole next day.
So I try it again, the new end of book, something like:
''I'm leaving and never coming back'' and again nothing.
Another new morning and another confusion.
I discovered escape to a dream helps me. But then again.
Return to reality becomes harder and harder and I found my
Demons someplace there as well...
My body turned to ridiculous blubber bag. My reason left my
head and staggers in smoke near the ceiling. The world spins
on and I get out of my body and I wield it by thin cords of
thoughts like a puppet. I am not what I used to be and I am
not what I wanted to be, I remained alone, enormously alone
and I envy you and everyone.
Demons will get out before I die, I can feel it. I just
hope it will not be you who'll suffer by that, my love, my
optimistic princess, my cute sinner, my toy, whore, lover,
cunt, beauty, the best girl in universe.
If you would... don't you think it would be an excellent
end of book?
But what would be the next day?
What if the Demons would calm dawn by that and I wouldn't
die?
Thank God, I'm a coward.
Maoz Tzur.
Mighty rock...

I can't concentrate, I can't control my thoughts anymore, my
hand controls them, your hand, I remember a sight for gods.
I want to fuck you.
You're an actress.
If the Demons will get out, hell awaits you.
If he won't get out, hell awaits me.
I'm not sure who deserves it more...
I'm scared, baby.
I'm stronger and in the same time weaker then I've ever
been, I feel like making theatrical gestures, but already in
the moment I make them I feel sorry about that. I don't know
what I want and I don't know what I can. I don't know what
is and I don't know what will be. I'm not sure about what
was, what was dream and what was reality... Am I in prison
or am I just sleeping and soon I'll wake up next to you,
from a bad dream, but with your silky cunt beneath my
fingers? Are you in a strange city with strange dick in
between your legs or are you telling me you love me and will
never ever leave me? Am I hallucinating or is it really
blood on my hands? Is it past or is it future? Is future in
front of us or behind? Am I backing up? Turning round? Do I
stay in place?
Or is there just a tumor growing in my brain, tumor with
your name carved on its sides? What do I try to say?
Do I love or do I hate?
Am I able to love? To hate? And what is between love and
hatred?
Do you understand? I want to torture you to death and in the
same time I want you to be happy... That's incredible...
Rumanians and Russians are in fact from Moldova and they
smoke so much I don't have to open my pack of cigarettes.
They play cards all the time and say SHEPTY, beep wit SMS's
and talk. You're sleeping, if guess, if the reality is not a
dream, how I wish it was, God! You're sleeping with your new
dick... We don't match, do we? Maybe, perhaps. There are
other cunts and they'll pay. For what? I don't know, but it
is never a problem to find a cause for punishment now, is
it? I know this from my own experience. Ask God. Just a
while ago I analyzed this topic with him in the bathroom. I
don't even know what I'm writing anymore... Before the gates
of hell are blazing fires and the flames burn the last
remnants of each sinner's reason. Hell is a place where I
become my father. He would be pleased. He's there and waits,
with his arms open, head pounded to pieces, why did he do
it? Why does he make me do it? Wasn't that enough? What he
did? Do I have to finish his job? Do I have to finish your
job, daddy?

I wrote you a letter, love. I wanted you to get it when I'm
gone, when I disappear. Beautiful end of book. Mighty letter
full of unselfish love, reason, understanding, delight to
see such a letter. Then I called you and told you what I
wrote to the letter. End of end of book.

Love, I want to kill you, I want you to suffer before you
die. Every and each of your tears will be sweeter than honey
and more bitter than bile for me. When you're dead, Ill cry
over your body and curse the one who did it, who killed you.
I'll accuse Demons. But what if... what if there is no ''my
me'' and ''Demons''? What if...?
No, when you're dead, I'll cry for you. I'll keep crying an
calling you back to life and God will listen and you'll take
your breath from my lips and kiss me and love me for
eternity and we'll have family and three children, as we
planned... Do you plan three children with your new dick?
God, make me wake up, let me wake up, let me wake up and you
be next to me, naked, and I'll nestle close to you, naked
and I'll inhale you...
I woke up and you're next to me, naked, and I nestled close
to you, naked and I inhale you... you smell of death and
there's blood on my hands... Ugly dream. Uglier reality.

Stay in the strange city, don't come close to Demons. Don't
come in here, love. I'm worried about you.

The gates of hell open and the airplane touches down. My dad
runs towards me and waves his fishing rod. He caught a big
fish. It is me on the hook. He wrenched the hook of my mouth
and took out a meter. A good size. Why did you do it, dad?
Don't you get you stole my hope? Don't you get I am you and
you are me? And that what happened to you awaits me as well?


Can someone understand what hell is? Is someone taking me
seriously when I say I'm going to die? Jews killing a Jew!
And can i understand that other people have their own hells?
So what do I expect...

I want you to know that the only thing that is enough for me
to be happy is knowledge you're happy. Like that I wrote it,
I just used less ''that''. Then, all hyped up by my
magnificence, I called you and told you that and didn't
forget to add it doesn't matter anyway, for I'm dying. I try
to make everyone love me and in the same time to suffer by
that. I'm good in it. I just didn't figure out how to make
some money out of that... So I at least write about it.