Another three weeks before home and I’ve already started packing impatiently, as if the flight was tomorrow. I guess I just can’t wait for another Fascination Street experience.

My dreams are bordering on madness, sometimes they appear so vivid that I tell myself in my dream that it’s only a dream, it’s only a dream and I would tell myself three times…
My mind is passing beyond the limits of sanity, because I’m hungry. I haven’t even properly started this self-imposed diet yet and the transition seems to already hint or enhance my sense of deprivation.
Last week’s dream was bestial. I won’t elaborate, but it was like this.
Last night I had to make a decision whether or not to take a trip on a ghost train. I remember a black circle-shaped door. The door was part of a massive graffiti on the wall illustrating a pale dark-haired woman – the door being her mouth. The bell was in her nostril. Her eyes were white, almost ghost-like. I didn’t go inside, because I was distracted by other things. A lot was already happening outside, around me – something like a riot, I don’t quite remember. I was selling designer lip balm at some point. I think my pillow is gathering Lovecraft’s perspiration of poisonous murk.
Do you reckon Ellen P. will like these dreams?
In my dreams desire is androgynous, which I find somewhat worrying.

The month of the Taurus has come to an end. My attempt to occupy myself a little longer with nihilism has failed big time. Where do emotions go otherwise if there’s no hangman you can offer them to? If you hold on to them for too long, they’ll get corroded by time; they’ll be useless and no longer easy for the heart to digest. I keep finding myself mask my self-pity. I don’t even care; you seem to care more about it than I do. This can’t be healing, I think it’s scarring. Maybe I’m hungry after three years of celibacy.

I recall the memories of losing virginity twice. The third time will be a novelty – sad or wild, I don’t care anymore.
If my interests are shocking and morbid, then it’s because others are boring. I hate it when people ask what I put in my blog – it’s like…It’s none of your business! Well I write about what you don’t talk about. And I use creative modifications to cover up my nastiness whereas you just insist on concealing your naked soul from me. Not even a little hint, or a flavourful taste. You make me sick.
Sycophants and opportunists. You make me sick.

I shall start the incision right here ______________________
Let’s analyse what’s inside that pillow, then plunge into delirium. I promise it won’t be that bad. The only impediment we have is your fear.
The suture can wait.

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