domingo, 1 de abril de 2012


Dibujos de fresas machacadas a palazos que acaban convirtiéndose en ríos de sangre. Calaveras con plumas y tinteros; frascos de datura stramonium de los que salen venas y arterias. Y una novia cadáver. Cicatrices de guerra que acabarán, sea como sea, en la piel.

They ask me to write a diary but I feel completely unable. The only real diary I have written has not fruits but griefs. Drawings rest in paper while words are kept. I just cannot behave like ordinary people. Do not depend someone. Do not show affection. Do not live like all of them.

Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.
It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out. It doesn't matter much to me.
I'm going to Strawberry Fields where nothing is real and nothing to get hung about.

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