Love and War Machine

I think I might cry to my favourite prostitute tonight. Sometimes we would stay up all night just to watch the sun rise. The memory is sweet enough to hurt. I can't escape the torturer in my head and he can't help who he is. I hope he knows that I would forgive him if I cared hard enough. And when my abuse is over all I can do is try to look apologetic and slam the old tin can against a gin bottle as hard and often as I can.

They want me to keep going on because every drop from my heart gives them fuel to start the humiliation fresh the next day. And they know I know it's a show.

Karen Carpenter sings "Time and time again the chance for love has passed me by" and I would have sang along but being sober and 40 minutes away from a karaoke bar closed for holidays, I had to let the lyrics pool in my mouth. I met Yi on Kleinanzeigen, after hours of deliriously scrolling for trinkets and curiosities. She was giving away a miniature ship in a miniature bottle, something I attributed great artistic meaning to, so I told her that plain and simple as the words you're reading now. In one of the pictures was Dazai's No Longer Human, a depressing sludge of a book, or so I've been led to believe since my grasp on Japanese literature stopped at Mishima and Kurosawa. She found that funny, so did I, so we went for a coffee and I gave her my fourth and final copy of The Sympathizer.