No Porn for Cuties

Гаро, благодаря! Ти ми показа нещо красиво.

What if I choose to live and what if I killed you, Inhumanity There is no light out of all the places There is no sign of our help There is no time and a chance of relations What if I choose you?... Sometimes I feel like a fucking pathologist, digging deep into the rotten ectoplasm of somebody’s soul to find out the reasons for their premature rigor mortis. Rigor mortis, you see, is the condition that describes your internal affairs after you have successfully managed to mortify every last living bit of humanity in you. As with the dead body, rigor mortis of the soul has different colourful and odorous stages. Most are irreversible, simply because people eventually get used to the smelling pile inside their chests. Whether because it is the common practice, or 'cause it is fucking easier to glide only on the surface of the skin and bone bags wriggling in the dirt instead of digging deeper, most people take the red pill and switch off their souls. Sad but true, but we are still jus

Here I begin to fail the steps of a battle without sense I've nearly began to understand as I grown my way There is no light out of all the places There is no sign of our help There is no time and a chance of relations What if I choose to live? Living in a dangerous womb Its like falling every moment every stage Living in my own little world Outcoming every sequence of this dream How did this begin and turned in such inhumanity? I'm hoping for myself to escape the insanity, I'm open What if I choose to live and what if I killed you, Inhumanity There is no light out of all the places There is no sign of our help There is no time and a chance of relations What if I choose you How did this begin and turned in such inhumanity? I'm hoping for myself to escape the insanity, I'm open What if I choose to live and what if I killed you Inhumanity

One good night is more than worth the next day's hangover...

How many men have been in your sacred hole? V.A.S.T. My predicament sucks; or should I say, I suck in its stead. So here we go, says I upon my last glass for the night: I want the Duke I can’t have, I fuck the Shaman that broke my heart, and yet another, the lovely Hunter, who broke the heart of many others (I guess, it is some sort of retaliation). There is even a rhythm to it, though VAST counterfeits with some quality depression on the stereo. Ain’t that a Broadway special? This is not the end of the story, still. There is, of course, the Poet, who in his drunken nightmares sees me as a mother of his children; the Prophet, who somehow finds a place in my heart amidst his incomprehensible visions of Armageddon; the Painter, who owes me a dinner and a mural; the Psycho with the blond curls and the stone cold face, who idolizes my obscenity… My life seems to be sewn out the patches of those grim images, never lasting, ever changing and somehow constant like the abstinence of a junkie

... The piano has been drinking My necktie's asleep The combo went back to New York, and left me all alone The jukebox has to take a leak Have you noticed that the carpet needs a haircut? And the spotlight looks just like a prison break And the telephone's out of cigarettes As usual the balcony's on the make And the piano has been drinking, heavily The piano has been drinking And he's on the hard stuff tonight The piano has been drinking And you can't find your waitress Even with the Geiger counter And I guarantee you that she will hate you From the bottom of her glass And all of your friends remind you That you just can't get served without her The piano has been drinking The piano has been drinking And the lightman's blind in one eye And he can't see out of the other And the piano-tuner's got a hearing aid And he showed up with his mother And the piano has been drinking Without fear of contradiction I say The piano has been drinking Our Father who

When someone is seeking ... it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything ... because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal. Hermann Hesse , Siddhartha Wisdom is not communicable. The wisdom which a wise man tries to communicate always sounds foolish... Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom. One can find it, live it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it. Hermann Hesse , Siddhartha

You just don’t love me And I just don’t care Oh I never said I would play fair Something so perfect and so rare There is no cure There’s not a prayer... So what can I do? I am the only perfect choice; You’ve met your match I’ve lost my voice And when you’re gone it gets so cold I swear I’m too young to be this old So what can I do? Oh I've been better You know what’s pure and you know what’s right But I’m forever, Just do the right thing for once in your life In your life... I’ve got a right to be this wrong It started when the lying did All of me aches and the best of me is gone And all that I am is out and lay bare So what can I do? So what can I do? Oh, I've been a beggar You want what’s pure and you want what’s right But I’m for ever Just do the right thing for once in your life In your life... So what can I do? It’s all I am It’s all I am It’s all I am It’s all I am Oh, I've been cheated, covered in diamonds covered in filth But I'm still breathing Oh, please stic

Три рок бара до три през нощта. Три разбити сърца водени от щерката на Че Гевара към поредната порция деградация. Ace of Base vs. Dimmu Borgir. Дълга руса коса. "Пуших нещо, от което ме сърби цялото тяло!" I will survive, bitches! Владко е фалафел. System of a Down. "Нивото ми на абстракция достигна до такива висоти, че скоро ще започна да говоря на санскрит...". Srg. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band на обратно призовава Сатаната. Пет лева до Западна Фабрика, моля. Лош вкус в устата, някъде някой излива гнева си под формата на драйфане върху асфалт. Гледам танцът на тавана и си мечтая за прегръдките на Малкия Принц, а той все си остава в сферата на сюрреалната фикция. И преди да заспя отново се чудя , защо когато Кърт Кобейн умря не смениха кмета. Минаха години, а все още смърдим на teen spirit и отчайващи хормонални ексцесии...