Between before and after

Post mortem journal take II








Barrels of the forgiving land stand alone in the blizzard. We walk the endless path of the human anatomy to carry out the goods. Some come up in the etiquette of the mother nature. We made our days by faking the information gutter. They keep telling you, that what they have is pure and simple. There is no turning back. You are guilty. Your are not guilty. You are clean. They are blind. You are used. You are brand new. They are perfectly matched. They know it all. You are scattered. I wish... there would be no end. Time. Breaking points. Shared sheets turned by emotional time bombs.

The taste is poor and richly fake. We are swimming in the endless spirals of the human interface... What comes after. What is in who's direction. Does the machine work. And who is deciding who and how to take in. The 5 is always equal 2 + 2. There is no turning back. Not after everything that I have seen. Shiver. The will is opposite to the connection points. How is it possible to conceive the idea of the human raise if everything is decided before you. For you and behind you. Stop.

The moment comes from the STOP. 4 letter that change the resistance for ever.

Intently. Why and who. The answer comes before the question. No more points are meant to be taken. The touch of the existing benevolence. The responsibility of the brain patterns and human contact that shows the picture - censured. Happiness. Management and pseudo management. The body language of defeated existence. Praying for the outcomes and the angles. Made my choice. In the vortex. Your move. Let the talkers talk. Nothing matters. This is a lullaby with out guilt so let the bird sing a pretty song. There is all time in the world.

The dogs are watching. Don't care. Made a promise. Loud and proud. Maybe it will open the eyes. Listening to the secret messages and sounds. I do understand. 1000 postcards with my life on them. Mirrors. Looks. Membranes. The screams of the inner mind. Anne Sexton and tequila to ... drown. Everything is simple. And the sound that has just one pulsating, high, clean hypnotic wave. That takes over every corner. Even the one that was secretly stashed away.

Coffee cup 17 cigarette number 43 and the hidden labyrinth

Good night for now and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich


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