Eeries on fire

Here I am again, raising my hand to finish it all... It took only one time of dying for me to understand that it's the way. The perverted way of ripping the pain off. I don't care anymore whom I've been before death, I only know whom I'll be after. I'm able to create myself now, to shape my own shadow, choosing new illogical and unneeded names for a kind of identification. The matter is I don't want to carry the imposed name anymore. It was given by the people who actually don't care... So their child is dead. Smell the gasoline!.. They wanted to shape a little part of me themselves - but I'm twisting it all to the gravel. Feel the flame licking the previous cover, see the touch of decay! It hurts, but look, how much art is in this suffering! Encapsulation is over, the butterfly is born with the death of a maggot.

Encapsulated, preparing for self-annihilation

Destination nowhere. No power to change what should be changed. All bridges on fire...
She was slowly walking down the street in the very heart of that huge monster-like city with its screaming ads and neons everywhere. She used to like that energy in the past, but now it was really killing... It seemed that all this ugly lights were growing in her eyes, becoming shapeless and aggressive, they were invading her brain, twisting it with sharp, torn pain from the middle of the grey mass, destroying her privacy - and at the same time, she knew that for sure, all this city was absolutely indifferent about her; nobody cared, except some disco-boys, riding fathers' cabs and thinking they're unbelievable cool because of that. She hated them, she hated everything surrounding her now - and only the pain inside, it was something of her own; she was bleeding - and gently scratching the wound; she felt encapsulated, for all this shit not to touch her, for she could die alone, for nobody could reach her and roughly force his way inside her isolation...
She could do nothing. Actually she could do everything, but now... now it was impossible for her even to raise her hand to strike a blow. But still, all bridges are already on fire. And all, what's left to do, was waiting there, encapsulated, preparing for self-annihilation.

In Memory Of Q

A year passed by. The nameless one, you can hear me. My dead alter ego, I found out who you really are so recently. Hey, I really thought I was the only one among black angels, but it appears that I wasn't. What you created could not be done by a usual human-being. But we crossed each other in time, and my moment of truth contemporized your departure. Maybe each of the shadow worlds needs its own master, so while I'm spreading my wings over this side, you're contemplating another one...
You were definitely right, names mean nothing. Being a genius, you don't need to have any stupid identification. Name is just something that is imposed to anyone since he is born, but we're stronger than this. The name doesn't make you, but you make it - and exactly you proved that on your own example.
Already a year... But how it happened that through the shroud of death we have compatible visions? My dead alter ego, materialized sleeping demon, forever nameless...

Strobe

I'm getting more and more convinced that this life is a strobe. More and more highlights in shorter and shorter periods of time... First it makes you move. Then it makes you tired. After all it leaves you delirious. Squeezed. And finally you cross the threshold of insanity. Or sit surrounded with tobacco smoke, having no idea what to want after all...
This life is a strobe. It dazzles and makes you dizzy.