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El TangoThat's Tango playing.
This sadness of the soul singing with an own voice, petting my ears rescuing all my negative emotions I learned to love to live. This pain is lovely.
It's destructive and creative, yin and yang,
it's cycling like an engine in my brain,
it's spitting into the ugly face of filthy majority's opinion.
It's a powerful sadness, it's not nostalgia, saudade, weltschmerz, dor or whatever other beautiful word you may call it,
it's made of pure frustration and meant to drive us sufferers above mediocrity.
Yet, what did you, my reflex in the mirror, do?
I feel disgust looking into your happy faces, your shining smiles, I want to smash all mirrors incapable of suffering into pieces. Just shatter.
Envy? I don't think so. Because you aren't human anymore but monsters.
Let there be Tango.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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