The thing about growing up in heaven is that you'll always be afraid of hell. But it's not that simple, is it? Because heaven is hell, isn't it? No one can renounce your status in the house of fire, Claiming greater pain, truer pain, Because all your joy was once sorrow, And the pains in your screams, as laughter they echo

People will talk, You will be given a duty by the self-proclaimed god, With both hands you will forge a hill

I'm suspicious of your attempt at mediocre singularity because you are not alone and never will be

does my posture make you uncomfortable? is it too straight? my gait, my weight? how about my voice? is it too strong? too dark? should i increase my vocal pitch by two decibels? should it be sweeter? am I a dessert? your dessert? a pretty skinny ditsy happy museum piece to observe?

Old people used to demand respect A wrinkle meant you'd seen the dead,

tied to a chair with the machine beside my head, each zap meant to caution my dread to suppress, to suppress, to not tell anybody else

ölüm gibi kokuyorum. farkında değilim, ölüyorum

Fame is not the friend on which to depend. Take your leave in silence, you owe me not a thing.

"I'll make you a deal" he said, the glass table in the car dealership trickled down my spine with uncertainty his hair was frozen in place,