I am scared.

I’m eating pasta and crying.

When am I going to to accept that life sometimes it’s not around, sometimes people get hurt and die, but not give up or somethimes they do.

You can’t always be there and you can’t always count to three.

It’s just one

two

one

…two.

One, and life goes.

You can paint it or write about it, but it never get out of your bed if it happened there. It’s in your heart forever. It’s really well locked somewhere else inside your brain because if it wasn’t that way, you’d propably be in a lot of trouble right now.

Like the other stuff you didn’t know how to take care. They run free now and there’s no much you can do about it. They are, you know.

See how traggic something can become. I’m sure we can not control this kind of thing.

A crowded mall, a flat old land in another country, a room, raindrops, your bed, your mom. All that stuff is breakble, fragile, a gaze. It’s inside now, and what the fuck are you supposed to do about it,

if it’s never leaving your fucking

bed

in the morning?

Eu escrevi, porque precisei. E nada mais.